•NRLF 


B    3    315    31fi 


RSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

C.  P.  HUNTINGTON 

0/-^o 


II. 


POEMS 


HOME    AND    TRAYEL, 


BY 


BAYARD    TAYLOR. 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR     AND     FIELDS 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  ]S.«,  by 

BAYARD  TAYLOB, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


STEREOTYPED     AT     THE 
I  O  S  T  OX      fr  X  K  K  E  0  T  Y  1'E     F  O  U  X  J)  K  Y . 


NEW  editions  of  the  "  Rhymes  of  Travel,"  (pub 
lished  in  1849,)  and  the  "  Book  of  Romances, 
Lyrics,  and  Songs,"  (published  in  1851,)  having 
been  called  for,  the  author  has  carefully  revised 
both  works,  rejecting  much  that  did  not  appear 
worthy  of  republication,  and  now  offers  them  again 
to  the  public,  together  with  a  number  of  new 
poems,  written  since  the  appearance  of  his  "  Poems 
of  the  Orient."  The  two  volumes,  therefore,  con 
tain  all  the  poetry  which  he  is  willing  to  acknowl 
edge,  up  to  the  present  time.  He  desires  a  speedy 
forgetfulness  for  what  he  has  omitted. 

YORK,  October,  1855. 


OF    THF 

UNIVERSITY 


TO 


GEORGE    H.   BOKER. 

To  you  the  homage  of  this  book  I  bring. 

The  earliest  and  the  latest  flowers  I  yield, 

And  though  their  hues  betray  a  barren  field, 
I  know  you  will  not  slight  the  offering. 
You  were  the  mate  of  my  poetic  spring  ; 

To  you  its  buds  of  little  worth  concealed 

More  than  the  summer  years  have  since  revealed, 
Or  doubtful  autumn  from  the  stem  shall  fling. 

But  here  they  are,  the  buds,  the  blossoms  blown  ; 
If  rich  or  scant,  the  wreath  is  at  your  feet  ; 

And  though  it  were  the  freshest  ever  grown, 
To  you  its  incense  could  not  be  more  sweet, 

Since  with  it  goes  a  love  to  match  your  own, 
A  heart,  dear  Friend,  that  never  falsely  beat. 

(4) 


\\  B  R  A 

OF   THE 

UNIVERSITY 


CONTENTS 


ROMANCES  AND  LYRICS. 

PAGE 

METEMPSYCHOSIS  OF  THE  PINE, 11 

HYLAS, 18 

KUBLEH:   A  STORY  OF  THE  ASSYRIAN  DESERT,      .        .        .25 

LOVE  AND  SOLITUDE, 32 

MON-DA-MIN;   OR,  THE  ROMANCE  OF  MAIZE,        .        .        .43 

THE  SOLDIER  AND  THE  PARD, 60 

ARIEL  IN  THE  CLOVEN  PINE, 71 

THE  HARP  :  AN  ODE, 76 

SERAPION, 80 

"  MOAN,  YE  WILD  WINDS  !  " So 

TAURUS, 87 

THE  ODALISQUE, 91 

SORROWFUL  Music, .93 

THE  TULIP-TREE, .       .        95 

AUTUMNAL  VESPERS, 98 

ODE  TO  SHELLEY, 101 


G 


SICILIAN  WINE, 104 

SUMM EU'S  BACCHANAL, 109 

STORM-LINES, 112 

THE  Two  VISIONS, 115 

THE  LIFE  OF  EARTH, 117 

STOUM  SONG, 120 

SONG,  .      „ 122 

THE  WAVES,  ......    \.       ...        123 

SONG,          .       .        .       .       .       .       .       ...        .126 

CRICKET  SONG, 127 

WORDSWORTH,  .       •       .       .       ...       V      .        .129 
SONNET.    To  G.  H.  B.,       .       ..      »       ....        130 

CALIFORNIAN  BALLADS  AND  POEMS. 

MANTTELA, 133 

THE  FIGHT  OF  PASO  DEL  MAR 138 

THE  PINE  FOREST  OF  MONTEREY, 142 

EL  CANELO, 147 

THE  EAGLE  HVNTER, 151 

THE  SUMMER  CAMP 1,54 

THE  BISON  TRACK, 162 

RHYMES   OF  TRAVEL,  AXD   EARLY  POEMS. 

THE  TOMB  OF  CHARLEMAGNE, 169 

THE  WAYSIDE  DREAM, 1"2 

STEYERMARK,         .        . 176 


To  A  BAVARIAN  GIRL, 178 

IN  ITALY,       .       .       .        .        .        •       .        .        .        .  ISO 

THE  STATUE  IN  THE  SNOW,    .        .        .        .        .        .        .182 

THE  DEAREST  IMAGE,    .        .       .       ......  18-5 

A  BACCHIC  ODE,        ...... 187 

A  FUNERAL  THOUGHT,     ".'...        .       .        .  '     .  WO 

THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  SOUL,       .       .               >       ,       .        .  193 

AN  HOUR,       .        .        .        .        .        ...        .  •      .  197 

THE  NORSEMAN'S  RIDE, 201 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  FIRE, 204 

A  REQUIEM  IN  THE  NORTH, 207 

A  VOICE  FROM  PIEDMONT, 210 

THE  CONTINENTS, 213 

THE  MOUNTAINS, 218 

LIFE,   .  — 219 

I/ENVOI, 220 

LATER  POEMS. 

WIND  AND  SEA, 22-5 

MY  DEAD, 227 

THE  LOST  CROAVN, 229 

STUDIES  FOR  PICTURES  : 

I.  —  AT  HOME, 232 

II.  —  THE  NEIGHBOR, 2-33 

III.  —  UNDER  THE  STARS, 23-5 

IV.  —  IN  THE  MORNING 237 


8 


SUNKEN  TREASURES, 240 

A  FANTASY, 243 

THE  VOYAGERS, 246 

MEMORY, 248 

THE  MARINERS,     .........  250 


NOTE, .        .    253 


ROMANCES    AND    LYRICS 


(9) 


11 


METEMPSYCHOSIS   OF  THE   PINE. 

As  when  the  haze  of  some  wan  moonlight  makes 

Familiar  fields  a  land  of  mystery, 
Where  all  is  changed,  and  some  new  presence  wakes 
In  flower,  and  bush,  and  tree, — 

Another  life  the  life  of  Day  o'erwhelms  ; 

The  Past  from  present  consciousness  takes  hue, 
And  we  remember  vast  and  cloudy  realms 
Our  feet  have  wandered  through  : 

So,  oft,  some  moonlight  of  the  mind  makes  dumb 

The  stir  of  outer  thought :  wide  open  seems 
The  gate  wherethrough  strange  sympathies  have  come, 
The  secret  of  our  dreams ; 


12 


The  source  of  fine  impressions,  shooting  deep 

Below  the  failing  plummet  of  the  sense  ; 
Which  strike  beyond  all  Time,  and  backward  sweep 
Through  all  intelligence. 

We  touch  the  lower  life  of  beast  and  clod, 

And  the  long  process  of  the  ages  see 
From  blind  old  Chaos,  ere  the  breath  of  God 
Moved  it  to  harmony. 

All  outward  wisdom  yields  to  that  within, 

Whereof  nor  creed  nor  canon  holds  the  key ; 
Wre  only  feel  that  we  have  ever  been, 
And  evermore  shall  be. 

And  thus  I  know,  by  memories  unfurled 

In  rarer  moods,  and  many  a  nameless  sign, 
That  once  in  Time,  and  somewhere  in  the  world, 
I  was  a  towering  Pine, 

Rooted  upon  a  cape  that  overhung 

The  entrance  to  a  mountain  gorge ;  whereon 
The  wintry  shadow  of  a  peak  was  flung, 
Long  after  rise  of  sun. 


13 


Behind,  the  silent  snows  ;  and  wide  below, 

The  rounded  hills  made  level,  lessening  down 
To  where  a  river  washed  with  sluggish  flow 
A  many-templed  town. 

There  did  I  clutch  the  granite  with  firm  feet, 

There  shake  my  boughs  above  the  roaring  gulf, 
When  mountain  whirlwinds  through  the  passes  beat, 
And  howled  the  mountain  wolf. 


There  did  I  louder  sing  than  all  the  floods 

Whirled  in  white  foam  adown  the  precipice, 
And  the  sharp  sleet  that  stung  the  naked  woods 
Answer  with  sullen  hiss  : 


But  when  the  peaceful  clouds  rose  white  and  high 

On  blandest  airs  that  April  skies  could  bring, 
Through  all  my  fibres  thrilled  the  tender  sigh, 
The  sweet  unrest  of  Spring. 

She,  with  warm  fingers  laced  in  mine,  did  melt 

In  fragrant  balsam  my  reluctant  blood ; 
And  with  a  smart  of  keen  delight  I  felt 
The  sap  in  every  bud, 


14 


And  tingled  through  my  rough  old  bark,  and  fast 

Pushed  out  the  younger  green,  that  smoothed  my  tones, 
When  last  year's  needles  to  the  wind  I  cast, 
And  shed  my  scaly  cones. 

I  held  the  eagle  till  the  mountain  mist 

Rolled  from  the  azure  paths  he  came  to  soar, 
And  like  a  hunter,  on  my  gnarled  wrist 
The  dappled  falcon  bore. 

Poised  o'er  the  blue  abyss,  the  morning  lark 

Sang,  wheeling  near  in  rapturous  carouse  ; 

And  hart  and  hind,  soft-pacing  through  the  dark, 

Slept  underneath  my  boughs. 

Down  on  the  pasture-slopes  the  herdsman  lay, 
And  for  the  flock  his  birchen  trumpet  blew ; 
There  ruddy  children  tumbled  in  their  play, 
And  lovers  came  to  woo. 


And  once  an  army,  crowned  with  triumph,  came 

Out  of  the  hollow  bosom  of  the  gorge, 
With  mighty  banners  in  the  wind  aflame, 
Borne  on  a  glittering  surge 


15 


Of  tossing  spears,  a  flood  that  homeward  rolled, 

While  cymbals  timed  their  steps  of  victory, 
And  horn  and  clarion  from  their  throats  of  gold 
Sang  with  a  savage  glee. 

I  felt  the  mountain  walls  below  me  shake, 

Vibrant  with  sound,  and  through  my  branches  poured 
The  glorious  gust :  my  song  thereto  did  make 
Magnificent  accord. 

Some  blind  harmonic  instinct  pierced  the  rind 

Of  that  slow  life  which  made  me  straight  and  high, 
And  I  became  a  harp  for  every  wind, 
A  voice  for  every  sky ; 

When  fierce  autumnal  gales  began  to  blow, 

Roaring  all  day  in  concert,  hoarse  and  deep ; 
And  then  made  silent  with  my  weight  of  snow  — 
A  spectre  on  the  steep  ; 

Filled  with  a  whispering  gush,  like  that  which  flows 

Through  organ-stops,  when  sank  the  sun's  red  disk 
Beyond  the  city,  and  in  blackness  rose 
Temple  and  obelisk  ; 


16 


Or  breathing  soft,  as  one  who  sighs  in  prayer, 
Mysterious  sounds  of  portent  and  of  might, 
What  time  I  felt  the  wandering  waves  of  air 
Pulsating  through  the  night. 

And  thus  for  centuries  my  rhythmic  chant 

Rolled  down  the  gorge,  or  surged  about  the  hill : 
Gentle,  or  stern,  or  sad,  or  jubilant, 
At  every  season's  will. 

No  longer  Memory  whispers  whence  arose 

The  doom  that  tore  me  from  my  place  of  pride  : 
Whether  the  storms  that  load  the  peak  with  snows, 
And  start  the  mountain  slide, 

Let  fall  a  fiery  bolt  to  smite  my  top, 

Upwrenched  my  roots,  and  o'er  the  precipice 
Hurled  me,  a  dangling  wreck,  erelong  to  drop 
Into  the  wild  abyss  ; 

Or  whether  hands  of  men,  with  scornful  strength 
And  force  from  Nature's  rugged  armory  lent, 
Sawed  through  my  heart  and  rolled  my  tumbling  length 
Sheer  down  the  steep  descent. 


17 


All  sense  departed,  with  the  boughs  I  wore  ; 

And  though  I  moved  with  mighty  gales  at  strife, 
A  mast  upon  the  seas,  I  sang  no  more, 
And  music  was  my  life. 

Yet  still  that  life  awakens,  brings  again 
Its  airy  anthems,  resonant  and  long, 
Till  Earth  and  Sky,  transfigured,  fill  my  brain 
With  rhythmic  sweeps  of  song. 

Thence  am  I  made  a  poet :  thence  are  sprung 

Those  motions  of  the  soul,  that  sometimes  reach 
Beyond  all  grasp  of  Art, —  for  which  the  tongue 
Is  ignorant  of  speech. 

And  if  some  wild,  full-gathered  harmony 

Roll  its  unbroken  music  through  my  line, 
There  lives  and  murmurs,  faintly  though  it  be, 
The  Spirit  of  the  Pine. 
2 


18 


HYLAS. 

STORM-WEARIED  Argo  slept  upon  the  water. 
No  cloud  was  seen ;  on  blue  and  craggy  Ida 
The  hot  noon  lay,  and  on  the  plain's  enamel ; 
Cool,  in  his  bed,  alone,  the  swift  Scamander. 
"  Why  should  I  haste  ?  "  said  young  and  rosy  Hylas  : 
u  The  seas  were  rough,  and  long  the  way  from  Colchis. 
Beneath  the  snow-white  awning  slumbers  Jason, 
Pillowed  upon  his  tame  Thessalian  panther ; 
The  shields  are  piled,  the  listless  oars  suspended 
On  the  black  thwarts,  and  all  the  hairy  bondsmen 
Doze  on  the  benches.     They  may  wait  for  water, 
Till  I  have  bathed  in  mountain-born  Scamander." 

So  said,  unfilleting  his  purple  chlamys, 
And  putting  down  his  urn,  he  stood  a  moment, 
Breathing  the  faint,  warm  odor  of  the  blossoms 
That  spangled  thick  the  lovely  Dardan  meadows. 


19 


Then,  stooping  lightly,  loosened  he  his  buskins, 
And  felt  with  shrinking  feet  the  crispy  verdure, 
Naked,  save  one  light  robe  that  from  his  shoulder 
Hung  to  his  knee,  the  youthful  flush  revealing 
Of  warm,  white  limbs,  half-nerved  with  coming  man 
hood, 

Yet  fair  and  smooth  with  tenderness  of  beauty. 
Now  to  the  river's  sandy  marge  advancing, 
He  dropped  the  robe,  and  raised  his  head  exulting 
In  the  clear  sunshine,  that  with  beam  embracing 
Held  him  against  Apollo's  glowing  bosom. 
For  sacred  to  Latona's  son  is  Beauty, 
Sacred  is  Youth,  the  joy  of  youthful  feeling. 
A  joy  indeed,  a  living  joy,  was  Hylas, 
Whence  Jove-begotten  Heracles,  the  mighty, 
To  men  though  terrible,  to  him  was  gentle 
Smoothing  his  rugged  nature  into  laughter 
When  the  boy  stole  his  club,  or  from  his  shoulders 
Dragged  the  huge  paws  of  the  Nemsean  lion. 

The  thick,  brown  locks,  tossed  backward  from  his  fore 
head, 

Fell  soft  about  his  temples  ;  manhood's  blossom 
Not  yet  had  sprouted  on  his  chin,  but  freshly 
Curved  the  fair  cheek,  and  full  the  red  lips'  parting, 
Like  a  loose  bow,  that  just  has  launched  its  arrow. 


20 


His  large  blue  eyes,  with  joy  dilate  and  beamy, 
Were  clear  as  the  unshadowed  Grecian  heaven ; 
Dewy  and  sleek  his  dimpled  shoulders  rounded 
To  the  white  arms  and  whiter  breast  between  them. 
Downward,  the  supple  lines  had  less  of  softness  : 
His  back  was  like  a  god's  ;  his  loins  were  moulded 
As  if  some  pulse  of  power  began  to  waken ; 
The  springy  fulness  of  his  thighs,  outswerving, 
Sloped  to  his  knee,  and,  lightly  dropping  downward, 
Drew  the  curved  lines  that  breathe,  in  rest,  of  motion. 

He  saw  his  glorious  limbs  reversely  mirrored 
In  the  still  wave,  and  stretched  his  foot  to  press  it 
On  the  smooth  sole  that  answered  at  the  surface  : 
Alas  !  the  shape  dissolved  in  glimmering  fragments. 
Then,  timidly  at  first,  he  dipped,  and  catching 
Quick  breath,  with  tingling  shudder,  as  the  waters 
Swirled  round  his  thighs,  and  deeper,  slowly  deeper, 
Till  on  his  breast  the  River's  cheek  was  pillowed, 
And  deeper  still,  till  every  shoreward  ripple 
Talked  in  his  ear,  and  like  a  cygnet's  bosom 
His  white,  round  shoulder  shed  the  dripping  crystal. 
There,  as  he  floated,  with  a  rapturous  motion, 
The  lucid  coolness  folding  close  around  him, 
The  lily-cradling  ripples  murmured,  "  Hylas  !  " 
He  shook  from  off  his  ears  the  hyacinthine 


21 


Curls,  that  nad  lain  unwet  upon  the  water, 
And  still  the  ripples  murmured,  "  Hylas  !  Hylas  ! " 
He  thought :  "  The  voices  are  but  ear-born  music. 
Pan  dwells  not  here,  and  Echo  still  is  calling 
From  some  high  cliff  that  tops  a  Thracian  valley : 
So  long  mine  ears,  on  tumbling  Hellespontus, 
Have  heard  the  sea  waves  hammer  Argo's  forehead, 
That  I  misdeem  the  fluting  of  this  current 
For  some  lost  nymph  —  "     Again  the  murmur,  "  Hy 
las  !  " 

And  with  the  sound  a  cold,  smooth  arm  around  him 
Slid  like  a  wave,  and  down  the  clear,  green  darkness 
Glimmered  on  either  side  a  shining  bosom,  — 
Glimmered,  uprising  slow ;  and  ever  closer 
Wound  the  cold  arms,  till,  climbing  to  his  shoulders, 
Their  cheeks  lay  nestled,  while  the  purple  tangles, 
Their  loose  hair  made,  in  silken  mesh  enwound  him. 
Their  eyes  of  clear,  pale  emerald  then  uplifting, 
They  kissed  his  neck  with  lips  of  humid  coral, 
And  once  again  there  came  a  murmur,  "  Hylas ! 
O,  come  with  us  !    O,  follow  where  we  wander 
Deep  down  beneath  the  green,  translucent  ceiling,  — 
Where  on  the  sandy  bed  of  old  Scamander 
With  cool  white  buds  we  braid  our  purple  tresses, 
Lulled  by  the  bubbling  waves  around  us  stealing ! 
Thou  fair  Greek  boy,  O,  come  with  us !     0,  follow 


22 


Where  thou  no  more  shalt  hear  Propontis  riot, 
But  by  our  arms  be  lapped  in  endless  quiet, 
Within  the  glimmering  caves  of  Ocean  hollow! 
We  have  no  love  ;  alone,  of  all  the  Immortals, 
We  have  no  love.     O,  love  us,  we  who  press  thee 
With  faithful  arms,  though  cold,  —  whose  lips  caress 

thee, — 

Who  hold  thy  beauty  prisoned  !     Love  us,  Hylas  !  " 
The  sound  dissolved  in  liquid  murmurs,  calling 
Still  as  it  faded,  "  Come  with  us,  O,  follow  !  " 

The  boy  grew  chill  to  feel  their  twining  pressure 
Lock  round  his  limbs,  and  bear  him,  vainly  striving, 
Down  from  the  noonday  brightness.     "  Leave  me,  Na 
iads  ! 

Leave  me  !  "  he  cried  ;  "  the  day  to  me  is  dearer 
Than  all  your  caves  deep-sphered  in  Ocean's  quiet. 
I  am  but  mortal,  seek  but  mortal  pleasure  : 
I  would  not  change  this  flexile,  warm  existence, 
Though  swept  by  storms,  and  shocked  by  Jove's  dread 

thunder, 

To  be  a  king  beneath  the  dark-green  waters." 
Still  moaned  the  humid  lips,  between  their  kisses, 
"  We  have  no  love.     0,  love  us,  we  who  love  thee  ! " 
And  came  in  answer,  thus,  the  words  of  Hylas : 
"  My  love  is  mortal.     For  the  Argive  maidens 


I  keep  the  kisses  which  your  lips  would  ravish. 

Unlock  your  cold  white  arms, —  take  from  my  shoulder 

The  tangled  swell  of  your  bewildering  tresses. 

Let  me  return :  the  wind  comes  down  from  Ida, 

And  soon  the  galley,  stirring  from  her  slumber, 

Will  fret  to  ride  where  Pelion's  twilight  shadow 

Falls  o'er  the  towers  of  Jason's  sea-girt  city. 

I  am  not  yours,  —  I  cannot  braid  the  lilies 

In  your  wet  hair,  nor  on  your  argent  bosoms 

Close  my  drowsed  eyes  to  hear  your  rippling  voices. 

Hateful  to  me  your  sweet,  cold,  crystal  being, — 

Your  world  of  watery  quiet.     Help,  Apollo  ! 

For  I  am  thine  :  thy  fire,  thy  beam,  thy  music, 

Dance  in  my  heart  and  flood  my  sense  with  rapture  : 

The  joy,  the  warmth  and  passion  now  awaken, 

Promised  by  thee,  but  erewhile  calmly  sleeping. 

O,  leave  me,  Naiads  !  loose  your  chill  embraces, 

Or  I  shall  die,  for  mortal  maidens  pining." 

But  still  with  unrelenting  arms  they  bound  him, 

And  still,  accordant,  flowed  their  watery  voices : 

"  We  have  thee  now  —  we  hold  thy  beauty  prisoned  ; 

O,  come  with  us  beneath  the  emerald  waters ! 

We  have  no  love  ;  we  love  thee,  rosy  Hylas. 

O,  love  us,  who  shall  nevermore  release  thee  : 

Love  us,  whose  milky  arms  will  be  thy  cradle 

Far  down  on  the  untroubled  sands  of  ocean, 


24 


Where  now  we  bear  thee,  clasped  in  our  embraces." 

And  slowly,  slowly  sank  the  amorous  Naiads  ; 

The   boy's  blue   eyes,  upturned,  looked  through   the 

water, 

Pleading  for  help ;  but  Heaven's  immortal  Archer 
Was  swathed  in  cloud.     The  ripples  hid  his  forehead, 
And  last,  the  thick,  bright  curls  a  moment  floated, 
So  warm  and  silky  that  the  stream  upbore  them, 
Closing  reluctant,  as  he  sank  forever. . 

The  sunset  died  behind  the  crags  of  Imbros. 
Argo  was  tugging  at  her  chain ;  for  freshly 
Blew  the  swift  breeze,  and  leaped  the  restless  billows. 
The  voice  of  Jason  roused  the  dozing  sailors, 
And  up  the  mast  was  heaved  the  snowy  canvas. 
But  mighty  Heracles,  the  Jove-begotten, 
Unmindful  stood,  beside  the  cool  Scamander, 
Leaning  upon  his  club.     A  purple  chlamys 
Tossed  o'er  an  urn  was  all  that  lay  before  him  : 
And  when  he  called,  expectant,  "  Hylas  !  Hylas  !  " 
The  empty  echoes  made  him  answer  —  "  Hylas  !  " 


25 


KUBLEH : 

A   STORY   OF   THE   ASSYRIAN   DESERT. 

THE  black-eyed  children  of  the  Desert  drove 
Their  flocks  together  at  the  set  of  sun. 
The  tents  were  pitched  ;  the  weary  camels  bent 
Their  suppliant  necks,  and  knelt  upon  the  sand ; 
The  hunters  quartered  by  the  kindled  fires 
The  wild  boars  of  the  Tigris  they  had  slain, 
And  all  the  stir  and  sound  of  evening  ran 
Throughout  the  Shammar  camp.     The  dewy  air 
Bore  its  full  burden  of  confused  delight 
Across  the  flowery  plain  ;  and  while,  afar, 
The  snows  of  Koordish  Mountains  in  the  ray 
Flashed  roseate  amber,  Nimroud's  ancient  mound 
Rose  broad  and  black  against  the  burning  West. 
The  shadows  deepened,  and  the  stars  came  out, 
Sparkling  in  violet  ether  ;  one  by  one 


Glimmered  the  ruddy  camp-fires  on  the  plain, 
And  shapes  of  steed  and  horseman  moved  among 
The  dusky  tents,  with  shout  and  jostling  cry, 
And  neigh  and  restless  prancing.     Children  ran 
To  hold  the  thongs,  while  every  rider  drove 
His  quivering  spear  in  the  earth,  and  by  his  door 
Tethered  the  horse  he  loved.     In  midst  of  all 
Stood  Shammeriyah,  whom  they  dared  not  touch, — 
The  foal  of  wondrous  Kubleh,  to  the  Shekh 
A  dearer  wealth  than  all  his  Georgian  girls. 

But  when  their  meal  was  o'er,  —  when  the  red  fires 
Blazed  brighter,  and  the  dogs  no  longer  bayed, — 
When  Shammar  hunters  with  the  boys  sat  down 
To  cleanse  their  bloody  knives,  came  Alimar, 
The  poet  of  the  tribe,  whose  songs  of  love 
Are  sweeter  than  Bassora's  nightingales, — 
Whose  songs  of  war  can  fire  the  Arab  blood 
Like  war  itself:  who  knows  not  Alimar? 
Then  asked  the  men,  "  O  Poet,  sing  of  Kubleh  !  " 
And  boys  laid  down  the  burnished  knives  and  said, 
"  Tell  us  of  Kubleh,  whom  we  never  saw, — 
Of  wondrous  Kubleh  !  "     Closer  drew  the  group, 
With  eager  eyes,  about  the  flickering  fire, 
While  Alimar,  beneath  the  Assyrian  stars, 
Sang  to  the  listening  Arabs  : 


27 


"  God  is  great ! 

O  Arabs  !  never  since  Mohammed  rode 
The  sands  of  Beder,  and  by  Mecca's  gate 
That  winged  steed  bestrode,  whose  mane  of  fire 
Blazed  up  the  zenith,  when,  by  Allah  called, 
He  bore  the  Prophet  to  the  walls  of  Heaven, 
Was  like  to  Kubleh,  Sofuk's  wondrous  mare : 
Not   all   the    milk-white   barbs,   whose    hoofs   dashed 

flame, 

In  Bagdad's  stables,  from  the  marble  floor,  — 
Who,  swathed  in  purple  housings,  pranced  in  state 
The  gay  bazaars,  by  great  Al-Raschid  backed  : 
Not  the  wild  charger  of  Mongolian  breed 
That  went  o'er  half  the  world  with  Tamerlane : 
Nor  yet  those  flying  coursers,  long  ago 
From  Ormuz  brought  by  swarthy  Indian  grooms 
To  Persia's  kings,  —  the  foals  of  sacred  mares, 
Sired  by  the  fiery  stallions  of  the  sea ! 

"  Who  ever  told,  in  all  the  Desert  Land, 
The  many  deeds  of  Kubleh  ?     Who  can  tell 
Whence  came  she  ?  whence  her  like  shall  come  again  ? 
O  Arabs  !  sweet  as  tales  of  Scheherazade 
Heard  in  the  camp,  when  javelin  shafts  are  tried 
On  the  hot  eve  of  battle,  are  the  words* 
That  tell  the  marvels  of  her  history. 


28 


"  Far  in  the  Southern  sands,  the  hunters  say, 

Did  Sofuk  find  her,  by  a  lonely  palm. 

The  well  had  dried  ;  her  fierce,  impatient  eye 

Glared  red  and  sunken,  and  her  slight  young  limbs 

Were  lean  with  thirst.     He  checked  his  camel's  pace, 

And  while  it  knelt,  untied  the  water-skin, 

And  when  the  wild  mare  drank,  she  followed  him. 

Thence  none  but  Sofuk  might  the  saddle  gird 

Upon  her  back,  or  clasp  the  brazen  gear 

About  her  shining  head,  that  brooked  no  curb 

From  even  him  ;  for  she,  alike,  was  royal. 

"  Her  form  was  lighter,  in  its  shifting  grace, 
Than  some  impassioned  almeh's,  when  the  dance 
Unbinds  her  scarf,  and  golden  anklets  gleam, 
Through  floating  drapery,  on  the  buoyant  air. 
Her  light,  free  head  was  ever  held  aloft ; 
Between  her  slender  and  transparent  ears 
The  silken  forelock  tossed ;  her  nostril's  arch, 
Thin-blown,  in  proud  and  pliant  beauty  spread, 
Snuffing  the  desert  winds.     Her  glossy  neck 
Curved  to  the  shoulder  like  an  eagle's  wing, 
And  all  her  matchless  lines  of  flank  and  limb 
Seemed  fashioned  from  the  flying  shapes  of  air. 
When  sounds  of  warlike  preparation  rang 
From  tent  to  tent,  her  keen  and  restless  eye 


29 


Shone  blood-red  as  a  ruby,  and  her  neigh 
Rang  wild  and  sharp  above  the  clash  of  spears. 

"  The  tribes  of  Tigris  and  the  Desert  knew  her  : 
Sofuk  before  the  Shammar  bands  she  bore 
To  meet  the  dread  Jebours,  who  waited  not 
To  bid  her  welcome  ;  and  the  savage  Koord, 
Chased  from  his  bold  irruption  on  the  plain, 
Has  seen  her  hoof-prints  in  his  mountain  snow. 
Lithe  as  the  dark-eyed  Syrian  gazelle, 
O'er  ledge,  and  chasm,  and  barren  steep  amid 
The  Sinjar  hills,  she  ran  the  wild  ass  down. 
Through  many  a  battle's  thickest  brunt  she  stormed, 
Reeking  with  sweat  and  dust,  and  fetlock  deep 
In  curdling  gore.     When  hot  and  lurid  haze 
Stifled  the  crimson  sun,  she  swept  before 
The  whirling  sand-spout,  till  her  gusty  mane 
Flared  in  its  vortex,  while  the  camels  lay 
Groaning  and  helpless  on  the  fiery  waste. 

"  The  tribes  of  Taurus  and  the  Caspian  knew  her  : 
The  Georgian  chiefs  have  heard  her  trumpet  neigh 
Before  the  walls  of  Teflis  ;  pines  that  grow 
On  ancient  Caucasus  have  harbored  her, 
Sleeping  by  Sofuk  in  their  spicy  gloom. 
The  surf  of  Trebizond  has  bathed  her  flanks, 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 


30 


When  from  the  shore  she  saw  the  white-sailed  bark 
That  brought  him  home  from  Stamboul.     Never  yet, 
O  Arabs  !  never  yet  was  like  to  Kubleh  ! 

"  And  Sofuk  loved  her.     She  was  more  to  him 
Than  all  his  snowy-bosomed  odalisques. 
For  many  years  she  stood  beside  his  tent, 
The  glory  of  the  tribe. 

"At  last  she  died, — 

Died,  while  the  fire  was  yet  in  all  her  limbs, — 
Died  for  the  life  of  Sofuk,  whom  she  loved. 
The  base  Jebours  —  on  whom  be  Allah's  curse  !  — 
Came  on  his  path,  when  far  from  any  camp, 
And  would  have  slain  him,  but  that  Kubleh  sprang 
Against  the  javelin  points,  and  bore  them  down, 
And  gained  the  open  Desert.     Wounded  sore, 
She  urged  her  light  limbs  into  maddening  speed, 
And  made  the  wind  a  laggard.     On  and  on 
The  red  sand  slid  beneath  her,  and  behind 
Whirled  in  a  swift  and  cloudy  turbulence, 
As  when  some  star  of  Eblis,  downward  hurled 
By  Allah's  bolt,  sweeps  with  its  burning  hair 
The  waste  of  darkness.     On  and  on  the  bleak, 
Bare  ridges  rose  before  her,  came,  and  passed, 
And  every  flying  leap  with  fresher  blood 


31 


Her  nostril  stained,  till  Sofuk's  brow  and  breast 
Were   flecked  with   crimson   foam.     He  would  have 

turned 

To  save  his  treasure,  though  himself  were  lost, 
But  Kubleh  fiercely  snapped  the  brazen  rein. 
At  last,  when  through  her  spent  and  quivering  frame 
The  sharp  throes  ran,  our  clustering  tents  arose, 
And  with  a  neigh,  whose  shrill  excess  of  joy 
Overcame  its  agony,  she  stopped  and  fell. 
The  Shammar  men  came  round  her  as  she  lay, 
And  Sofuk  raised  her  head,  and  held  it  close 
Against  his  breast.     Her  dull  and  glazing  eye 
Met  his,  and  with  a  shuddering  gasp  she  died. 
Then  like  a  child  his  bursting  grief  made  way 
In  passionate  tears,  and  with  him  all  the  tribe 
Wept  for  the  faithful  mare. 

"  They  dug  her  grave 
Amid  El-Hather's  marbles,  where  she  lies 
Buried  with  ancient  kings  ;  and  since  that  time 
Was  never  seen,  and  will  not  be  again, 
O  Arabs  !  though  the  world  be  doomed  to  live 
As  many  moons  as  count  the  desert  sands, 
The  like  of  glorious  Kubleh.     God  is  great !  " 


LOVE   AND  SOLITUDE. 


EARTH  knew  no  deeper  life  since  Earth  began, 

And  scarce  the  Heaven  above  : 

For  us  the  world  contains  no  ban ; 

In  the  profoundest  measure  given  to  Man, 

We  love,  we  love  ! 

O,  in  that  sound,  completion  lies 

For  all  imperfect  destinies. 

It  is  a  pulse  of  joy,  that  rings 

The  marriage-peal  of  Nature,  brings 

The  lonely  heart,  the  humblest  and  the  least, 

To  share  her  royal  feast ; 

No  more  an  outcast  on  her  sod, 

Or  at  her  board  a  stinted  guest, 

But  now  in  purple  raiment  dressed, 

And  heir  to  all  delight,  that  she  receives  of  God ! 


33 


ii. 


A  balmy  breath  is  breathed  upon  the  land, 

And  through  the  spirit's  inmost  cells 

It  floats  and  swells, 

Till  at  the  touch  of  its  persuading  hand 

The  jealous  bolts  give  way,  and  every  door 

Stands  wide  forevermore. 

Not  only  there,  dear  love,  not  only  there 

Where  Love's  warm  chambers  front  the  morning  air, 

Thy  soul  may  walk,  and  in  the  secret  bower 

Where  burns  the  holiest  fire  that  Heaven  lets  fall, 

And  with  Ambition,  in  his  blazoned  hall, 

Hope,  in  her  aiiy  tower  ! 

The  heart  has  other  guests  than  these, 

More  secret  halls,  more  solemn  mysteries. 

Dark  crypts,  beheld  of  none, 

Throne  darker  powers,  that  flee  the  sun, 

Chained  far  below,  and  heard  at  intervals 

When  all  is  still,  and  through  the  trembling  walls 

Some  guilty  whisper  calls  ; 

Or,  when  the  storms  have  blown, 

And  the  house  rocks  upon  its  basement  stone, 

They  wring  their  chains  with  clamor  that  appals 

The  pale-cheeked  lord.     To  thee 


34 


Those  awful  crypts  and  corridors  are  free. 

Thou  through  the  darkened  hush  mayst  glide, 

White  and  serene,  with  unaffrighted  breath, 

Past  the  blind  Sins,  that  slumber  leaden-eyed 

In  caves  that  lead  to  Death. 

Nor  I  the  less,  where  purer  powers  control 

The  perfect  temple  of  thy  soul, 

And  saintly  harmonies  to  me 

Breathe  from  its  gates  unceasingly, 

Its  bowery  courts  and  chambers  that  infold 

The  chastened  gleam  of  pearl  and  gold, 

Free  to  the  sun  and  blessed  air : 

No  deeper  gloom  than  starry  twilight  there  ! 


in. 


What  is  the  world  of  men  to  us  ?     We  love, 
And  Love  hath  his  own  world.     Love  hath 
Repose  in  storms  and  peace  in  wrath, 
Far  from  the  shocks  of  Time  a  quiet  path, 
Another  Earth  below,  another  Heaven  above. 
Men  from  their  weakness  and  their  sin  create 
The  iron  bonds  of  State, 
Soldered  with  wrongs  of  olden  date, — 
The  heartless  frame,  the  chance-directed  law 


35 


Which  grows  to  them  a  grand,  avenging  Fate, 

And  fills  their  darkness  with  its  awe. 

States  have  no  soul.     The  World's  tired  brain 

O'er  many  riddles  broods  with  pain, 

Not  hopeless  all,  but  hoping  much  in  vain. 

Those  who  have  never  loved  may  stay, 

And  in  his  files  fight  out  the  day ; 

But  aliens  we,  who  breathe  a  separate  air 

In  regions  far  away ! 

Thou  art  my  law,  I  thine  :  the  links  we  wear, 

If  not  of  Freedom,  dearer  still, 

And  binding  both  in  one  harmonious  will. 

Why  should  we  track  the  labyrinth  of  ill 

Before  us,  —  mingle  with  the  fret 

Of  jangling  natures,  till  our  souls  forget 

Their  crystal  orbits  of  accordant  sound  ? 

Why  should  we  walk  the  common  ground, 

Where  gloom  is  born  of  gloom,  and  pain 

From  pain  unfoldeth  ever, 

When  to  the  blue  air's  limitless  domain, 

Made  ours  by  right  of  love,  we  rise  without  endeavor  ? 


IV. 


Some  voice  of  wind  or  sea 

May  reach  the  imbruted  slave,  and  in  his  ear 


Drop  Freedom's  mighty  secret :  so  to  me 

Through  blindness  and  through  passion  came  the  clear 

Calm  voice  of  Love,  thenceforth  to  be 

The  revelation  of  diviner  truth 

Than  ever  touched  our  sinless  youth, — 

A  power  to  bid  us  face  Eternity ! 

But  the  same  whisper  that  reveals  the  glory 

Of  Freedom's  brow,  makes  also  known 

The  bitterness  of  bondage.     We 

Will  leave  this  splendid  misery, 

This  hollow  joy,  whose  laugh  but  hides  a  groan, 

And  teach  our  lives  to  write  a  perfect  story. 


v. 


O,  somewhere,  in  the  living  realms  that  lie 

Between  the  icy  zones  of  desolation, 

Covered  by  some  remote,  unconscious  sky, 

Where  God's  serene  creation 

Yet  never  glassed  itself  in  human  eye, 

Must  be  a  glorious  Valley,  hidden 

In  the  safe  bosom  of  the  hills  that  part 

The  river-veins  of  some  old  Continent's  heart, 

To  love  like  ours  a  shelter  unforbidden ! 

Some  Valley  must  there  be, 

Whereto  wide  wastes  of  desert  sand  have  kept 


37 


The  gateway  secret,  mountain  walls 

Across  the  explorer's  pathway  stepped, 

Or  mighty  woods  surrounded  like  a  sea. 

Love's  voice,  unto  the  chosen  ones  he  calls, 

Alike  the  compass  to  his  freedom  is, 

And  to  that  Vale,  the  lodestar  of  our  bliss, 

Our  hearts  shall  guide  us.     Even  now 

I  see  the  close  defiles  unfold 

Upon  a  sloping  mead  that  lies  below 

A  mountain  black  with  pines, 

O'er  which  the  barren  ridges  heave  their  lines, 

And  high  beyond,  the  snowy  ranges  old  ! 

Fed  by  the  plenteous  mountain  rain, 

Southward,  a  blue  lake  sparkles,  whence  outflows 

A  rivulet's  silver  vein, 

Awhile  meandering  in  fair  repose, 

Then  caught  by  riven  cliffs  that  guard  our  home, 

And  flung  upon  the  outer  world  in  foam ! 

The  sky  above  that  still  retreat, 

Through  all  the  year  serene  and  sweet, 

Drops  dew  that  finds  the  daisy's  heart, 

And  keeps  the  violet's  tender  lids  apart : 

All  winds  that  whistle  drearily 

Around  the  naked  granite,  die 

With  many  a  long,  melodious  sigh 

Among  the  pines  ;  and  if  a  tempest  seek 


38 


The  summits  cold  and  bleak, 

He  does  but  shift  the  snow  from  shining  peak  to  peak. 


VI. 


Or  should  this  Valley  seem 

Too  deeply  buried  from  the  golden  sun, 

Still  may  a  home  be  won 

Whose  breast  lies  open  to  his  every  beam. 

Some  Island,  on  the  purple  plain 

Of  Polynesian  main, 

Where  never  yet  the  adventurer's  prore 

Lay  rocking  near  its  coral  shore  : 

A  tropic  mystery,  which  the  enamoured  Deep 

Folds,  as  a  beauty  in  a  charmed  sleep. 

There  lofty  palms,  of  some  imperial  line, 

That  never  bled  their  nimble  wine, 

Crowd  all  the  hills,  and  out  the  headlands  go 

To  watch  on  distant  reefs  the  lazy  brine 

Turning  its  fringe  of  snow. 

There,  when  the  stm  stands  high 

Upon  the  burning  summit  of  the  sky, 

All  shadows  wither  :  Light  alone 

Is  in  the  world  :  and,  pregnant  grown 

With  teeming  life,  the  trembling  island-earth 


39 


And  panting  sea  forebode  sweet  pains  of  birth 
Which  never  come,  —  their  love  brings  never  forth 
The  Human  Soul  they  lack  alone  ! 


VII. 


We  to  that  Island  soul  and  voice  will  be, 

When  (rapturous  hour  !)  the  baffling  quest  is  over, 

The  boat  is  wrecked,  the  ship  is  blown  to  sea, 

And  underneath  the  palm-tree's  cover 

We  bless  our  God  that  He  hath  left  us  free. 

Then,  wandering  through  the  inland  dells 

Where  sun  and  dew  have  built  their  gorgeous  bowers, 

The  golden,  blue,  and  crimson  flowers 

Will  drain  in  joy  their  spicy  wells, 

The  lily  toll  her  alabaster  bells, 

And  some  fine  influence,  unknown  and  sweet, 

Precede  our  happy  feet 

Around  the  Isle,  till  all  the  life  that  dwells 

In  leaf  and  stem  shall  feel  it,  and  awake, 

And  even  the  pearly-bosomed  shells, 

Wet  with  the  foamy  kiss  of  lingering  swells, 

Shall  rosier  beauty  at  our  coming  take, 

For  Love's  dear  sake  ! 

There  when,  like  Aphrodite,  Mora 

From  the  ecstatic  waves  is  born, 


40 


The  chieftain  Palm,  that  tops  each  mountain-crest, 

Shall  feel  her  glory  gild  his  scaly  greaves, 

And  lift  his  glittering  leaves 

Like  arms  outspread,  to  take  her  to  his  breast. 

Then  shall  we  watch  her  slowly  bend,  and  fold 

The  Island  in  her  arms  of  gold, 

Breathing  away  the  heavy  balms  which  crept 

All  night  around  the  bowers,  and  lifting  up 

Each  flower's  enamelled  cup, 

To  drink  the  sweetness  gathered  while  it  slept. 

Yet  on  our  souls  a  joy  more  tender 

Shall  gently  sink,  when  sunset  makes  the  sky 

One  burning  sheet  of  opalescent  splendor, 

And  on  the  deep  dissolving  rainbows  lie. 

No  whisper  shall  disturb 

That  alchemy  superb, 

Whereto  our  beings  every  sense  surrender. 

O,  long  and  sweet,  while  sitting  side  by  side, 

Looking  across  the  western  sea, 

That  dream  of  Death,  that  morn  of  Heaven,  shall  be  ; 

And  when  the  shadows  hide 

Each  dying  flush,  upon  the  quiet  tide, — 

Quiet  as  is  our  love, — 

We  first  shall  see  the  stars  come  out  above, 

And  after  them,  the  slanting  beams  that  run, 

Based  on  the  sea,  far  up  the  shining  track 


41 


Of  the  emblazoned  Zodiac, 

A  pyramid  of  light,  above  the  buried  sun ! 


VIII. 

There  shall  our  lives  to  such  accordance  grow 

As  love  alone  can  know ; 

Can  never  know  but  there  : 

Each  within  each  involved,  like  Light  and  Air, 

In  endless  marriage.     Earth  will  fill 

Her  bounteous  lap  with  all  we  ask  of  Earth, 

Nor  ever  drought  or  dearth 

Shrink  the  rich  pulps  of  vale  and  hill. 

Content  at  last  the  missing  tone  to  hear 

Through  all  her  summer-chords, 

Which  makes  their  full-strung  harmony  complete 

In  her  delighted  ear, 

She  to  our  hearts  that  concord  shall  repeat. 

Led  by  the  strain,  it  may  be  ours  to  enter 

The  secret  chamber  where  she  works  alone 

With  Color,  Form,  and  Tone, 

In  human  mood,  or,  sterner  grown, 

Takes  hold  on  powers  that  shake  her  fiery  centre. 

Year  after  year  the  Island  shall  become 

A  fairer  and  serener  home, 


42 


And  happy  children,  beautiful  as  Dawn, 

The  future  parents  of  a  race 

Whose  purer  eyes  shall  face  to  face 

Look  on  the  Angels,  fill  our  place, 

And  be  the  Presence  and  the  Soul,  when  we  have  gone. 


IX. 


Forgive  the  dream.     Love  owns  no  human  birth, 

And  may  not  find  fulfilment  here 

On  this  degenerate  Earth. 

Forgive  the  dream  :  here  never  yet  was  given 

More  than  the  promise  and  the  hope  of  Heaven. 

The  dearest  joy  is  dashed  with  fear, 

Our  darkest  sorrow  may  be  then  most  near. 

Even  with  the  will  our  passion  lends 

We  cannot  break  the  chain  ; 

Against  our  vows,  we  must  remain 

With  common  men,  and  compass  common  ends. 

We  cannot  shut  our  hearts  from  haunting  fears  ; 

We  cannot  purge  our  eyes  from  heavy  tears  ; 

We  cannot  shift  the  burden  and  the  woe 

Which  all  alike  must  know, 

Which  Love's  Elected  through  the  countless  years 

Have  known,  and,  knowing,  died  :  God  wills  it  so. 


43 


MON-DA-MIN; 

OR,   THE    ROMANCE    OF   MAIZE. 


LONG  ere  the  shores  of  green  America 

Were  touched  by  men  of  Norse  and  Saxon  blood, 

What  time  the  Continent  in  silence  lay, 

A  solemn  world  of  forest  and  of  flood, 

Where  Nature  wantoned  wild  in  zones  immense, 

Unconscious  of  her  own  magnificence  ; 


n. 

Then  to  the  savage  race,  who  knew  no  world 

Beyond  the  hunter's  lodge,  the  council-fire, 

The  clouds  of  grosser  sense  were  sometimes  furled, 

And  spirits  came  to  answer  their  desire,  — 

The  spirits  of  the  race,  grotesque  and  shy ; 

Exaggerated  powers  of  earth  and  sky. 


44 


in. 

For  Gods  resemble  whom  they  govern :  they, 
The  fathers  of  the  soil,  may  not  outgrow 
The  children's  vision.     In  that  earlier  day, 
They  stooped  the  race  familiarly  to  know ; 
From  Heaven's  blue  prairies  they  descended  then, 
And  took  the  shapes  and  shared  the  lives  of  men. 


IV. 

A  chief  there  was,  who  in  the  frequent  stress 
Of  want,  yet  in  contentment,  lived  his  days  ; 
His  lodge  was  built  within  the  wilderness 
Of  Huron,  clasping  those  transparent  bays, 
Those  deeps  of  unimagined  crystal,  where 
The  bark  canoe  seems  hung  in  middle  air. 


v. 

There,  from  the  lake  and  from  the  uncertain  chase, 
With  patient  heart  his  sustenance  he  drew ; 
And  he  was  glad  to  see,  in  that  wild  place, 
The  sons  and  daughters  that  around  him  grew, 
Although  more  scant  they  made  his  scanty  store, 
And  in  the  winter  moons  his  need  was  sore. 


45 


VI. 

The  eldest  was  a  boy,  a  silent  lad, 
Who  wore  a  look  of  wisdom  from  his  birth  ; 
Such  beauty,  both  of  form  and  face,  he  had, 
As  until  then  was  never  known  on  earth  : 
And  so  he  was  (his  soul  so  bright  and  far !) 
Osseo  named,  —  Son  of  the  Evening  Star. 

VII. 

This  boy  by  nature  was  companionless  : 
His  soul  drew  nurture  only  when  it  sucked 
The  savage  dugs  of  Fable ;  he  could  guess 
The  knowledge  other  minds  but  slowly  plucked 
From  out  the  heart  of  things  ;  to  him,  as  well 
As  to  his  Gods,  all  things  were  possible. 

VIII. 

The  heroes  of  that  shapeless  faith  of  his 

Took  life  from  him :  when  gusts  of  powdery  snow 

Whirled  round  the  lodge,  he  saw  Paup-puckewiss 

Floundering  amid  the  drifts,  and  he  would  go 

Climbing  the  hills,  while  sunset  faded  wan, 

To  seek  the  feathers  of  the  Kosy  Swan. 


46 


IX. 

He  knew  the  lord  of  serpent  and  of  beast, 

The  crafty  Incarnation  of  the  North  ; 

He  knew,  when  airs  grew  warm  and  buds  increased, 

The  sky  was  pierced,  the  Summer  issued  forth, 

And  when  a  cloud  concealed  some  mountain's  crest, 

The  Bird  of  Thunder  brooded  on  his  nest. 


Through  Huron's  mists  he  saw  the  enchanted  boat 

Of  old  Mishosha  to  his  island  go, 

And  oft  he  watched,  if  on  the  waves  might  float, 

As  once,  the  Fiery  Plume  of  Wassamo ; 

And  when  the  moonrise  flooded  coast  and  bay, 

He  climbed  the  headland,  stretching  far  away ; 


XI. 

For  there  —  so  ran  the  legend  —  nightly  came 
The  small  Puck-wudjees,  ignorant  of  harm  : 
The  friends  of  Man,  in  many  a  sportive  game 
The  nimble  elves  consoled  them  for  the  charm 
Which  kept  them  exiled  from  their  homes  afar,  — 
The  silver  lodges  of  a  twilight  star. 


47 


XII. 

So  grew  Osseo,  as  a  lonely  pine, 

That  knows  the  secret  of  the  wandering  breeze, 

And  ever  sings  its  canticles  divine, 

Uncomprehended  by  the  other  trees  : 

And  now  the  time  drew  nigh,  when  he  began 

The  solemn  fast  whose  issue  proves  the  man. 

XIII. 

His  father  built  a  lodge  the  wood  within, 
Where  he  the  appointed  space  should  duly  bide, 
Till  such  propitious  time  as  he  had  been 
By  faith  prepared,  by  fasting  purified, 
And  in  mysterious  dreams  allowed  to  see 
What  God  the  guardian  of  his  life  would  be. 

XIV. 

The  anxious  crisis  of  the  Spring  was  past, 
And  warmth  was  master  o'er  the  lingering  cold. 
The  alder's  catkins  dropped ;  the  maple  cast 
His  crimson  bloom,  the  willow's  downy  gold 
Blew  wide,  and  softer  than  a  squirrel's  ear 
The  white-oak's  foxy  leaves  began  appear. 


48 


xv. 

There  was  a  motion  in  the  soil.     A  sound 
Lighter  than  falling  seeds,  shook  out  of  flowers, 
Exhaled  where  dead  leaves,  sodden  on  the  ground, 
Repressed  the  eager  grass  ;  and  there  for  hours 
Osseo  lay,  and  vainly  strove  to  bring 
Into  his  mind  the  miracle  of  Spring. 

XVI. 

The  wood-birds  knew  it,  and  their  voices  rang 
Around  his  lodge  ;  with  many  a  dart  and  whir 
Of  saucy  joy,  the  shrewish  catbird  sang 
Full-throated,  and  he  heard  the  kingfisher, 
Who  from  his  God  escaped  with  rumpled  crest, 
And  the  white  medal  hanging  on  his  breast. 

XVII. 

The  aquilegia  sprinkled  on  the  rocks 

A  scarlet  rain  ;  the  yellow  violet 

Sat  in  the  chariot  of  its  leaves  ;  the  phlox 

Held  spikes  of  purple  flame  in  meadows  wet, 

And  all  the  streams  with  vernal-scented  reed 

Were  fringed,  and  streaky  bells  of  miskodeed. 


49 


XVIII. 

The  boy  went  musing  :  What  are  these,  that  burst 
The  sod  and  grow,  without  the  aid  of  man  ? 
What  father  brought  them  food  ?  what  mother  nursed 
Them  in  her  earthy  lodge,  till  Spring  began  ? 
They  cannot  speak  ;  they  move  but  with  the  air ; 
Yet  souls  of  evil  or  of  good  they  bear. 


XIX. 

How  are  they  made,  that  some  with  wholesome  juice 
Delight  the  tongue,  and  some  are  charged  with  death  ? 
If  spirits  them  inhabit,  they  can  loose 
Their  shape  sometimes,  and  talk  with  human  breath  : 
Would  that  in  dreams  one  such  would  come  to  me, 
And  thence  my  teacher  and  my  guardian  be  ! 


xx. 

So,  when  more  languid  with  his  fast,  the  boy 
Kept  to  his  lodge,  he  pondered  much  thereon, 
And  other  memories  gave  his  mind  employ ; 
Memories  of  winters  when  the  moose  were  gone, — 
When  tales  of  Manabozo  failed  to  melt 
The  hunger-pang  his  pining  brothers  felt. 
4 


50 


XXI. 

He  thought :  The  Mighty  Spirit  knows  all  things, 
Is  master  over  all.     Could  He  not  choose 
Design  his  children  food  to  ease  the  stings 
Of  hunger,  when  the  lake  and  wood  refuse  ? 
If  He  will  bless  me  with  the  knowledge,  I 
Will  for  my  brothers  fast  until  I  die. 

XXII. 

Four  days  were  sped  since  he  had  tasted  meat : 
Too  faint  he  was  to  wander  any  more, 
When  from  the  open  sky,  that,  blue  and  sweet, 
Looked  in  upon  him  through  the  lodge's  door, 
With  quiet  gladness  he  beheld  a  fair 
Celestial  Shape  descending  through  the  air. 

XXIII. 

He  fell  serenely,  as  a  winged  seed 
Detached  in  summer  from  the  maple  bough  ; 
His  glittering  clothes  unruffled  by  the  speed, 
The  tufted  plumes  unshaken  on  his  brow : 
Bright,  wonderful,  he  came  without  a  sound, 
And  like  a  burst  of  sunshine  struck  the  ground. 


51 


XXIV. 

So  light  he  stood,  so  tall  and  straight  of  limb, 
So  fair  the  heavenly  freshness  of  his  face, 
With  beating  heart  Osseo  looked  at  him, 
For  now  a  God  had  visited  the  place. 
More  brave  a  God  his  dreams  had  never  seen : 
The  stranger's  garments  were  a  shining  green, 

. 

XXV. 

Sheathing  his  limbs  in  many  a  stately  fold, 
That,  parting  on  his  breast,  allowed  the  eye 
To  note  beneath,  his  vest  of  scaly  gold, 
Whereon  the  drops  of  slaughter,  scarcely  dry, 
Disclosed  their  blushing  stain  :  his  shoulders  fair 
Gave  to  the  wind  long  tufts  of  silky  hair. 

XXVI. 

The  plumy  crest,  that  high  and  beautiful 
Above  his  head  its  branching  tassels  hung, 
Shook  down  a  golden  dust,  while,  fixing  full 
His  eyes  upon  the  boy,  he  loosed  his  tongue. 
Deep  in  his  soul  Osseo  did  rejoice 
To  hear  the  reedy  music  of  his  voice  : 


52 


XXVII. 

"  By  the  Great  Spirit  I  am  hither  sent 
He  knows  the  wishes  whereupon  you  feed, — 
The  soul,  that,  on  your  brothers'  good  intent, 
Would  sink  ambition  to  relieve  their  need  : 
This  thing  is  grateful  to  the  Master's  eye, 
Nor  will  His  wisdom  what  you  seek  deny. 

xxvin. 

"  But  blessings  are  not  free  ;  they  do  not  fall 
In  listless  hands ;  by  toil  the  soul  must  prove 
Its  steadfast  purpose  master  over  all, 
Before  their  wings  in  pomp  of  coming  move  : 
Here,  wrestling  with  me,  must  you  overcome, 
In  me,  the  secret,  —  else,  my  lips  are  dumb." 

XXIX. 

No  match  for  his,  Osseo's  limbs  appeared, 
Weak  with  the  fast ;  and  yet  in  soul  he  grew 
Composed  and  resolute,  by  accents  cheered, 
That  spake  in  light  what  he  but  darkly  knew. 
He  rose,  unto  the  issue  nerved ;  he  sent 
Into  his  arms  the  hope  of  the  event. 


53 


XXX. 

The  shining  stranger  wrestled  long  and  hard, 
When,  disengaging  weary  limbs,  he  said : 
"  It  is  enough  ;  with  no  unkind  regard 
The  Master's  eye  your  toil  hath  visited. 
He  bids  me  cease  ;  to-day  let  strife  remain  ; 
But  on  the  morrow  I  will  come  again." 

XXXI. 

And  on  the  morrow  came  he  as  before, 
Dropping  serenely  down  the  deep-blue  air  : 
More  weak  and  languid  was  the  boy,  yet  more 
Courageous  he,  that  crowning  test  to  bear. 
His  soul  so  wrought  in  every  fainting  limb, 
It  seemed  the  cruel  fast  had  strengthened  him. 

XXXII. 

Again  they  grappled,  and  their  sinews  wrung 

In  desperate  emulation  ;  and  again 

Came  words  of  comfort  from  the  stranger's  tongue 

When  they  had  ceased.  He  scaled  the  heavenly  plain, 

His  tall,  bright  stature  lessening  as  he  rose, 

Till  lost  amid  the  infinite  repose. 


54 


XXXIII. 

On  the  third  day  descending  as  before, 

His  raiment's  gleam  surprised  the  silent  sky ; 

And  weaker  still  the  poor  boy  felt,  yet  more 

Courageous  he,  and  resolute  to  die, 

So  he  might  first  the  promised  good  embrace, 

And  leave  a  blessing  unto  all  his  race. 

xxxiv. 

This  time  with  intertwining  limbs  they  strove  ; 
The  God's  green  mantle  shook  in  every  fold, 
And  o'er  Osseo's  heated  forehead  drove 
His  silky  hair,  his  tassel's  dusty  gold, 
Till,  spent  and  breathless,  he  at  last  forbore, 
And  sat  to  rest  beside  the  lodge's  door. 

xxxv. 

"  My  friend,"  he  said,  "  the  issue  now  is  plain  ; 
Who  wrestles  in  his  soul  must  victor  be  ; 
Who  bids  his  life  in  payment  shall  attain 
The  end  he  seeks  —  and  you  will  vanquish  me. 
Then,  these  commands  fulfilling,  you  shall  win 
What  the  Great  Spirit  gives  in  Mon-da-Min. 


55 


XXXVI. 

"  When  I  am  dead,  strip  off  this  green  array, 
And  pluck  the  tassels  from  my  shrivelled  hair; 
Then  bury  me  where  summer  rains  shall  play 
Above  my  breast,  and  sunshine  linger  there. 
Remove  the  matted  sod  ;  for  I  would  have 
The  earth  lie  lightly,  softly  on  my  grave. 

XXXVII. 

"  And  tend  the  place,  lest  any  noxious  weed 
Through  the  sweet  soil  should  strike  its  bitter  root  j 
Nor  let  the  blossoms  of  the  forest  breed, 
Nor  the  wild  grass  in  green  luxuriance  shoot ; 
But  when  the  earth  is  dry  and  blistered,  fold 
Thereon  the  fresh  and  dainty-smelling  mould. 

XXXVIII. 

"  The  clamoring  crow,  the  blackbird  swarms  that  make 
The  meadow  trees  their  hive,  must  come  not  near  ; 
Scare  thence  all  hurtful  things ;  nor  quite  forsake 
Your  careful  watch  until  the  woods  appear 
With  crimson  blotches  deeply  dashed  and  crossed, — 
Sign  of  the  fatal  pestilence  of  Frost. 


56 


XXXIX. 

"  This  done,  the  secret,  into  knowledge  grown, 
Is  yours  forevermore."     With  that,  he  took 
The  yielding  air.     Osseo,  left  alone, 
Followed  his  flight  with  hope-enraptured  look. 
The  pains  of  hunger  fled  ;  a  happy  flame 
Danced  in  his  heart  until  the  trial  came. 


XL. 

It  happened  so,  as  Mon-da-Min  foretold  : 
Osseo's  soul,  at  every  wreathing  twist 
Of  palpitating  muscle,  grew  more  bold, 
And  from  the  limbs  of  his  antagonist 
Celestial  vigor  to  his  own  he  drew, 
Till  with  one  mighty  heave  he  overthrew. 

XLI. 

Then  from  the  body,  beautiful  and  cold, 

He  stripped  the  shining  clothes ;  but  on  his  breast 

He  left  the  vest,  engrained  with  blushing  gold, 

And  covered  him  in  decent  burial-rest. 

At  sunset  to  his  father's  lodge  he  passed, 

And  soothed  with  meat  the  anguish  of  his  fast. 


57 


XLII. 

Nought  did  he  speak  of  all  that  he  had  done, 
But  day  by  day  in  secrecy  he  sought 
An  opening  in  the  forest,  where  the  sun 
Warmed  the  new  grave :  so  tenderly  he  wrought, 
So  lightly  heaped  the  mould,  so  carefully 
Kept  all  the  place  from  choking  herbage  free, 

XLIII. 

That  in  a  little  while  a  folded  plume 

Pushed  timidly  the  covering  soil  aside, 

And,  fed  by  fattening  rains,  took  broader  room, 

Until  it  grew  a  stalk,  and  rustled  wide 

Its  leafy  garments,  lifting  in  the  air 

Its  tasselled  top,  and  knots  of  silky  hair. 

XLIV. 

Osseo  marvelled  to  behold  his  friend 

In  this  fair  plant  ;  the  secret  of  the  Spring 

Was  his  at  length  ;  and  till  the  Summer's  end 

He  guarded  him  from  every  harmful  thing. 

He  scared  the  cloud  of  blackbirds,  wheeling  low  ; 

His  arrow  pierced  the  reconnoitring  crow. 


58 


XLV. 

Now  came  the  brilliant  mornings,  kindling  all 

The  woody  hills  with  pinnacles  of  fire  ; 

The  gum's  ensanguined  leaves  began  to  fall, 

The  buckeye  blazed  in  prodigal  attire, 

And  frosty  vapors  left  the  lake  at  night 

To  string  the  prairie  grass  with  spangles  white. 

XLVI. 

One  day,  from  long  and  unsuccessful  chase 
The  chief  returned.     Osseo  through  the  wood 
In  silence  led  him  to  the  guarded  place, 
Where  now  the  plant  in  golden  ripeness  stood. 
"  Behold,  my  father  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  our  friend, 
Whom  the  Great  Spirit  unto  me  did  send. 


XL  VII. 


"  Then,  when  I  fasted,  and  my  prayer  He  knew, 
That  He  would  save  my  brothers  from  their  want ; 
For  this,  His  messenger  I  overthrew, 
And  from  his  grave  was  born  this  glorious  plant. 
'Tis  Mon-da-Min  :  his  sheathing  husks  enclose 
Food  for  mv  brothers  in  the  time  of  snows. 


T      XLVIII. 

"  I  leave  you  now,  my  father  !     Here  befits 
Me  longer  not  to  dwell.     My  pathway  lies 
To  where  the  West  Wind  on  the  mountain  sits, 
And  the  Red  Swan  beyond  the  sunset  flies  : 
There  may  superior  wisdom  be  in  store." 
And  so  he  went,  and  he  returned  no  more. 

XLIX. 

But  Mon-da-Min  remained,  and  still  remains  ; 
His  children  cover  all  the  boundless  land, 
And  the  warm  sun  and  frequent  mellow  rains 
Shape  the  tall  stalks  and  make  the  leaves  expand. 
A  mighty  army  they  have  grown  :  he  drills 
Their  green  battalions  on  the  summer  hills. 

L. 

And  when  the  silky  hair  hangs  crisp  and  dead, 
Then  leave  their  rustling  ranks  the  tasselled  peers, 
In  broad  encampment  pitch  their  tents  instead, 
And  garner  up  the  ripe  autumnal  ears  : 
The  annual  storehouse  of  a  nation's  need, 
From  whose  abundance  all  the  world  may  feed. 


60 


THE   SOLDIER  AND  THE   PARD. 

A  SECOND  deluge  !     Well,  —  no  matter  :  here, 

At  least,  is  better  shelter  than  the  lean, 

Sharp-elbowed  oaks  —  a  dismal  company  ! 

That  stood  around  us  in  the  mountain  road 

When  that  cursed  axle  broke  :  a  roof  of  thatch, 

A  fire  of  withered  boughs,  and  best  of  all, 

This  ruddy  wine  of  Languedoc,  that  warms 

One  through  and  through,  from  heart  to  finger-ends. 

No  better  quarters  for  a  stormy  night 

A  soldier,  like  myself,  could  ask  ;  and  since 

The  rough  Cevennes  refuse  to  let  us  forth, 

Why,  fellow-travellers,  if  so  you  will, 

I'll  tell  the  story  cut  so  rudely  short 

When  both  fore-wheels  broke  from  the  diligence, 

Stocked  in  the  rut,  and  pitched  us  all  together  : 


61 


i  said,  we  fought  beside  the  Pyramids  ; 
And  somehow,  from  the  glow  of  this  good  wine, 
And  from  the  gloomy  rain,  that  shuts  one  in 
With  his  own  self,  —  a  sorry  mate  sometimes  !  — 
The  scene  comes  back  like  life.     As  then,  I  feel 
The  sun,  and  breathe  the  hot  Egyptian  air, 
Hear  Kleber,  see  the  sabre  of  Dessaix 
Flash  at  the  column's  front,  and  in  the  midst 
Napoleon,  upon  his  Barbary  horse, 
Calm,  swarthy-browed,  and  wiser  than  the  Sphinx 
Whose  granite  lips  guard  Egypt's  mystery. 
Ha  !  what  a  rout !  our  cannon  bellowed  round 
The  Pyramids  :  the  Mamelukes  closed  in, 
And  hand  to  hand  like  devils  did  we  fight, 
Rolled  towards  Sakkara  in  the  smoke  and  sand. 

For  days  we  followed  up  the  Nile.     We  pitched 

Our  tents  in  Memphis,  pitched  them  on  the  site 

Of  Antinoe,  and  beside  the  cliffs 

Of  Aboufayda.     Then  we  came  anon 

On  Kenneh,  ere  the  sorely-frightened  Bey 

Had  time  to  pack  his  harem  :  nay,  we  took 

His  camels,  not  his  wives  :  and  so,  from  day 

To  day,  past  wrecks  of  temples  half  submerged 

In  sandy  inundation,  till  we  saw 

Old  noseless  Memnon  sitting  on  the  plain, 


62 


Both  hands  upon  his  knees,  and  in  the  east 

Karnak's  propylon  and  its  pillared  court. 

The  sphinxes  wondered  —  such  as  had  a  face  — 

To  see  us  stumbling  down  their  avenues  ; 

But  we  kept  silent.     One  may  whistle  round 

Your  Roman  temples  here  at  Nismes,  or  dance 

Upon  the  Pont  du  Gard  ;  —  but,  take  my  word, 

Egyptian  ruins  are  a  serious  thing  : 

You  would  not  dare  let  fly  a  joke  beside 

The  maimed  colossi,  though  your  very  feet 

Might  catch  between  some  mummied  Pharaoh's  ribs. 

Dcssaix  was  bent  on  chasing  Mamelukes, 

And  so  we  rummaged  tomb  and  catacomb, 

Clambered  the  hills  and  watched  the  Desert's  rim 

For  sight  of  horse.     One  day  my  company 

(I  was  but  ensign  then)  found  far  within 

The  sands,  a  two-days'  journey  from  the  Nile, 

A  round  oasis,  like  a  jewel  set. 

It  was  a  grove  of  date-trees,  clustering  close 

About  a  tiny  spring,  whose  overflow 

Trickled  beyond  their  shade  a  little  space, 

And  the  insatiate  Desert  licked  it  up. 

The  fiery  ride,  the  glare  of  afternoon 

Had  burned  our  faces,  so  we  stopped  to  feel 

The  coolness  and  the  shadow,  like  a  bath 


63 


Of  pure  ambrosial  lymph,  receive  our  limbs 
And  sweeten  every  sense.     Drowsed  by  the  soft, 
Delicious  greenness  and  repose,  I  crept 
Into  a  balmy  nest  of  yielding  shrubs, 
And  floated  off  to  slumber  on  a  cloud 
Of  rapturous  sensation. 

When  I  woke, 

So  deep  had  been  the  oblivion  of  that  sleep, 
That  Adam,  when  he  woke  in  Paradise, 
Was  not  more  blank  of  knowledge  ;  he  had  felt 
As  heedlessly,  the  silence  and  the  shade  ; 
As  ignorantly  had  raised  his  eyes  and  seen  — 
As,  for  a  moment,  I  —  what  then  I  saw 
With  terror,  freezing  limb  and  voice  like  death, 
When  the  slow  sense,  supplying  one  lost  link, 
Ran  with  electric  fleetness  through  the  chain 
And  showed  me  what  I  was,  —  no  miracle, 
But  lost  and  left  alone  amid  the  waste, 
Fronting  a  deadly  Pard,  that  kept  great  eyes 
Fixed  steadily  on  mine.     I  could  not  move : 
My  heart  beat  slow  and  hard  :  I  sat  and  gazed, 
Without  a  wink,  upon  those  jasper  orbs, 
Noting  the  while,  with  horrible  detail 
Whereto  my  fascinated  sight  was  bound, 
Their  tawny  brilliance,  and  the  spotted  fell 


64 


That  wrinkled  round  them,  smoothly  sloping  back 
And  curving  to  the  short  and  tufted  ears. 
I  felt  —  and  with  a  sort  of  fearful  joy  — 
The  beauty  of  the  creature  :  'twas  a  parcl, 
Not  such  as  one  of  those  they  show  you  caged 
In  Paris,  —  lean  and  scurvy  beasts  enough  ! 
No  :  but  a  desert  pard,  superb  and  proud, 
That  would  have  died  behind  the  cruel  bars. 

I  think  the  creature  had  not  looked  on  man, 
For,  as  my  brain  grew  cooler,  I  could  see 
Small  sign  of  fierceness  in  her  eyes,  but  chief, 
Surprise  and  wonder.     More  and  more  entranced, 
Her  savage  beauty  warmed  away  the  chill 
Of  deathlike  terror  at  my  heart :  I  stared 
With  kindling  admiration,  and  there  came 
A  gradual  softness  o'er  the  flinty  light 
Within  her  eyes  ;  a  shadow  crept  around 
Their  yellow  disks,  and  something  like  a  dawn 
Of  recognition  of  superior  will, 
Of  brute  affection,  sympathy  enslaved 
By  higher  nature,  then  informed  her  face. 
Thrilling  in  every  nerve,  I  stretched  my  hand,  — 
She  silent,  moveless,  —  touched  her  velvet  head, 
And  with  a  warm,  sweet  shiver  in  my  blood, 
Stroked  down  the  ruffled  hairs.     She  did  not  start ; 


65 


But,  in  a  moment's  lapse,  drew  up  one  paw 

And  moved  a  step,  —  another,  —  till  her  breath 

Came  hot  upon  my  face.     She  stopped  :  she  rolled 

A  deep-voiced  note  of  pleasure  and  of  love, 

And  gathering  up  her  spotted  length,  lay  down, 

Her  head  upon  my  lap,  and  forward  thrust 

One  heavy-moulded  paw  across  my  knees, 

The  glittering  talons  sheathing  tenderly. 

Thus  we,  in  that  oasis  all  alone, 

Sat  when  the  sun  went  down  :  the  Pard  and  I, 

Caressing  and  caressed  :  and  more  of  love 

And  more  of  confidence  between  us  came, 

I  grateful  for  my  safety,  she  alive 

With  the  dumb  pleasure  of  companionship, 

Which  touched  with  instincts  of  humanity 

Her  brutish  nature.     When  I  slept,  at  last, 

My  arm  was  on  her  neck. 

The  morrow  brought 

No  rupture  of  the  bond  between  us  twain. 
The  creature  loved  me  ;  she  would  bounding  come, 
Cat-like,  to  rub  her  great,  smooth,  yellow  head 
Against  my  knee,  or  with  rough  tongue  would  lick 
The  hand  that  stroked  the  velvet  of  her  hide. 
How  beautiful  she  was !   how  lithe  and  free 
The  undulating  motions  of  her  frame ! 
5 


66 


How  shone,  like  isles  of  tawny  gold,  her  spots, 
Mapped  on  the  creamy  white !    And  when  she  walked, 
No  princess,  with  the  crown  about  her  brows, 
Looked  so  superbly  royal.     Ah,  my  friends, 
Smile  as  you  may,  but  I  would  give  this  life 
With  its  fantastic  pleasures  —  ay,  even  that 
One  leads  in  Paris  —  to  be  back  again 
In  the  red  Desert  with  my  splendid  Pard. 

That  grove  of  date-trees  was  our  home,  our  world, 

A  star  of  verdure  in  a  sky  of  sand. 

Without  the  feathery  fringes  of  its  shade 

The  naked  Desert  ran,  its  burning  round 

Sharp  as  a  sword  :  the  naked  sky  above, 

Awful  in  its  immensity,  not  shone 

There  only,  where  the  sun  supremely  flamed, 

But  all  its  deep-blue  walls  were  penetrant 

With  dazzling  light.     God  reigned  in  Heaven  and 

Earth, 

An  Everlasting  Presence,  and  his  care 
Fed  us,  alike  his  children.     From  the  trees 
That  shook  down  pulpy  dates,  and  from  the  spring, 
The  quiet  author  of  that  happy  grove, 
My  wants  were  sated ;  and  when  midnight  came, 
Then  would  the  Pard  steal  softly  from  my  side, 
Take  the  unmeasured  sand  with  flying  leaps 


67 


And  vanish  in  the  dusk,  returning  soon 
With  a  gazelle's  light  carcass  in  her  jaws. 
So  passed  the  days,  and  each  the  other  taught 
Our  simple  language.     She  would  come  at  call 
Of  the  pet  name  I  gave  her,  bound  and  sport 
When  so  I  bade,  and  she  could  read  my  face 
Through  all  its  changing  moods,  with  better  skill 
Than  many  a  Christian  comrade.     Pard  and  beast, 
Though  you  may  say  she  was,  she  had  a  soul. 

But  Sin  will  find  the  way  to  Paradise. 

Ere  long  the  sense  of  isolation  fed 

My  mind  with  restless  fancies.     I  began 

To  miss  the  life  of  camp,  the  march,  the  fight, 

The  soldier's  emulation  :  youthful  blood 

Ran  in  my  veins  :  the  silence  lost  its  charm, 

And  when  the  morning  sunrise  lighted  up 

The  threshold  of  the  Desert,  I  would  gaze 

With  looks  of  bitter  longing  o'er  the  sand. 

At  last,  I  filled  my  soldier's  sash  with  dates, 

Drank  deeply  of  the  spring,  and  while  the  Pard 

Roamed  in  the  starlight  for  her  forage,  took 

A  westward  course.     The  grove  already  lay 

A  dusky  speck  —  no  more  —  when  through  the  night 

Came  the  forsaken  creature's  eager  cry. 

Into  a  sandy  pit  I  crept,  and  heard 


68 


Her  bounding  on  my  track  until  she  rolled 
Down  from  the  brink  upon  me.     Then  with  cries 
Of  joy  and  of  distress,  the  touching  proof 
Of  the  poor  beast's  affection,  did  she  strive 
To  lift  me  —  Pardon,  friends !  these  foolish  eyes 
Must  have  their  will :  and  had  you  seen  her  then, 
In  her  mad  gambols,  as  we  homeward  went, 
Your  hearts  had  softened  too. 

But  I,  possessed 

By  some  vile  devil  of  mistrust,  became 
More  jealous  and  impatient.     In  my  heart 
I  cursed  the  grove,  and  with  suspicions  wronged 
The  noble  Pard.     She  keeps  me  here,  I  thought, 
Deceived  with  false  caresses,  as  a  cat 
Toys  with  the  trembling  mouse  she  straight  devours. 
Will  she  so  gently  fawn  about  my  feet, 
When  the  gazelles  are  gone  ?    Will  she  crunch  dates, 
And  drink  the  spring,  whose  only  drink  is  blood  ? 
Am  I  to  ruin  flattered,  and  by  whom  ?  — 
Not  even  a  man,  a  wily  beast  of  prey. 
Thus  did  the  Devil  whisper  in  mine  ear, 
Till  those  black  thoughts  were  rooted  in  my  heart 
And  made  me  cruel.     So  it  chanced  one  day, 
That  as  I  watched  a  flock  of  birds,  that  wheeled, 
And  dipped,  and  circled  in  the  air,  the  Pard, 


69 


Moved  by  a  freak  of  fond  solicitude 

To  win  my  notice,  closed  her  careful  fangs 

About  my  knee.     Scarce  knowing  what  I  did, 

la  the  blind  impulse  of  suspicious  fear, 

I  plunged,  full  home,  my  dagger  in  her  neck. 

God  !  could  I  but  recall  that  blow  !     She  loosed 

Her  hold,  as  softly  as  a  lover  quits 

His  mistress'  lips,  and  with  a  single  groan, 

Full  of  reproach  and  sorrow,  sank  and  died. 

What  had  I  done  !     Sure  never  on  this  earth 

Did  sharper  grief  so  base  a  deed  requite. 

Its  murderous  fury  gone,  my  heart  was  racked 

With  pangs  of  wild  contrition,  spent  itself 

In  cries  and  tears,  the  while  I  called  on  God 

To  curse  me  for  my  sin.     There  lay  the  Pard, 

Her  splendid  eyes  all  film,  her  blazoned  fell 

Smirched  with  her  blood  ;  and  I,  her  murderer, 

Less  than  a  beast,  had  thus  repaid  her  love. 

Ah,  friends  !  with  all  this  guilty  memory 
My  heart  is  sore  :  and  little  now  remains 
To  tell  you,  but  that  afterwards  —  how  long, 
I  could  not  know  —  our  soldiers  picked  me  up, 
Wandering  about  the  Desert,  wild  with  grief 
And  sobbing  like  a  child.     My  nerves  have  grown 
To  steel,  in  many  battles  ;  I  can  step 


70 


Without  a  shudder  through  the  heaps  of  slain ; 
But  never,  never,  till  the  day  I  die, 
Prevent  a  woman's  weakness  when  I  think 
Upon  my  desert  Pard :  and  if  a  man 
Deny  this  truth  she  taught  me,  to  his  face 
I  say  he  lies  :  a  beast  may  have  a  soul. 


71 


ARIEL  IN  THE   CLOVEN  PINE. 

Now  the  frosty  stars  are  gone  : 
I  have  watched  them,  one  by  one, 
Fading  on  the  shores  of  Dawn. 
Round  and  full  the  glorious  sun 
Walks  with  level  step  the  spray, 
Through  his  vestibule  of  Day, 
While  the  wolves  that  late  did  howl 
Slink  to  dens  and  coverts  foul, 
Guarded  by  the  demon  owl, 
Who,  last  night,  with  mocking  croon, 
Wheeled  athwart  the  chilly  moon, 
And  with  eyes  that  blankly  glared 
On  my  direful  torment  stared. 

The  lark  is  flickering  in  the  light ; 
Still  the  nightingale  doth  sing  ;  — 
All  the  isle,  alive  with  Spring, 
Lies,  a  jewel  of  delight, 


On  the  blue  sea's  heaving  breast : 
Not  a  breath  from  out  the  West, 
But  some  balmy  smell  doth  bring 
From  the  sprouting  myrtle  buds, 
Or  from  meadowy  vales  that  lie 
Like  a  green  inverted  sky, 
Which  the  yellow  cowslip  stars, 
And  the  bloomy  almond  woods, 
Cloud-like,  cross  with  roseate  bars. 
All  is  life  that  I  can  spy, 
To  the  farthest  sea  and  sky, 
And  my  own  the  only  pain 
Within  this  ring  of  Tyrrhene  main. 

In  the  gnarled  and  cloven  Pine 
Where  that  hell-born  hag  did  chain  me, 
All  this  orb  of  cloudless  shine, 
All  this  youth  in  Nature's  veins 
Tingling  with  the  season's  wine, 
With  a  sharper  torment  pain  me. 
Pansies  in  soft  April  rains 
Fill  their  stalks  with  honeyed  sap 
Drawn  from  Earth's  prolific  lap  ; 
But  the  sluggish  blood  she  brings 
To  the  tough  Pine's  hundred  rings, 
Closer  locks  their  cruel  hold, 


73 

Closer  draws  the  scaly  bark 
Round  the  crevice,  damp  and  cold, 
Where  my  useless  wings  I  fold, — 
Sealing  me  in  iron  dark. 
By  this  coarse  and  alien  state 
Is  my  dainty  essence  wronged  ; 
Finer  senses  that  belonged 
To  my  freedom,  chafe  at  Fate, 
Till  the  happier  elves  I  hate, 
Who  in  moonlight  dances  turn 
Underneath  the  palmy  fern, 
Or  in  light  and  twinkling  bands 
Follow  on  with  linked  hands 
To  the  Ocean's  yellow  sands. 

Primrose-eyes  each  morning  ope 
In  their  cool,  deep  beds  of  grass  ; 
Violets  make  the  airs  that  pass 
Telltales  of  their  fragrant  slope. 
I  can  see  them  where  they  spring 
Never  brushed  by  fairy  wing. 
All  those  corners  I  can  spy 
In  the  island's  solitude, 
Where  the  dew  is  never  dry, 
Nor  the  miser  bees  intrude. 


74 


Cups  of  rarest  hue  are  there, 
Full  of  perfumed  wine  undrained, — 
Mushroom  banquets,  ne'er  profaned, 
Canopied  by  maiden-hair. 
Pearls  I  see  upon  the  sands, 
Never  touched  by  other  hands, 
And  the  rainbow  bubbles  shine 
On  the  ridged  and  frothy  brine, 
Tenantless  of  voyager 
Till  they  burst  in  vacant  air. 
O,  the  songs  that  sung  might  be, 
And  the  mazy  dances  woven, 
Had  that  witch  ne'er  crossed  the  sea 
And  the  Pine  been  never  cloven ! 

Many  years  my  direst  pain 

Has  made  the  wave-rocked  isle  complain. 

Winds,  that  from  the  Cyclades 

Came,  to  blow  in  wanton  riot 

Round  its  shore's  enchanted  quiet, 

Bore  my  waitings  on  the  seas ; 

Sorrowing  birds  in  Autumn  went 

Through  the  world  with  my  lament. 

Still  the  bitter  fate  is  mine, 

All  delight  unshared  to  see, 


75 


Smarting  in  the  cloven  Pine, 
While  I  wait  the  tardy  axe 
Which,  perchance,  shall  set  me  free 
From  the  damned  witch,  Sycorax. 


76 


THE   HARP:    AN   ODE. 


WHEN  bleak  winds  through  the  Northern  pines  were 
sweeping, 

Some  hero-skald,  reclining  on  the  sand, 
Attuned  it  first,  the  chords  harmonious  keeping 

With  murmuring  forest  and  with  moaning  strand  : 
And  when,  at  night,  the  horns  of  mead  foamed  over, 

And  torches  flared  around  the  wassail  board, 
It  breathed  no  song  of  maid,  nor  sigh  of  lover, 

It  rang  aloud  the  triumphs  of  the  sword  ! 
It  mocked  the  thunders  of  the  ice-ribbed  ocean, 

With   clenched    hands   beating   back   the    dragon's 

prow ; 
It  gave  Berserker  arms  their  battle  motion, 

And  swelled  the  red  veins  on  the  Viking's  brow ! 


77 


II. 


No  myrtle,  plucked  in  dalliance,  ever  sheathed  it, 

To  melt  the  savage  ardor  of  its  flow  ; 
The  only  gauds  wherewith  its  lord  en  wreathed  it, 

The  lusty  fir  and  Druid  mistletoe. 
Thus  bound,  it  kept  the  old,  accustomed  cadence, 

Whether  it  pealed  through  slumberous  ilex  bowers 
In  stormy  wooing  of  Byzantine  maidens, 

Or  shook  Trinacria's  languid  lap  of  flowers  ; 
Whether  Genseric's  conquering  march  it  chanted, 

Till  cloudy  Atlas  rang  with  Gothic  staves, 
Or  where  gray  Calpe's  pillared  feet  are  planted, 

Died  grandly  out  upon  the  unknown  waves  ! 


in. 


Not  unto  Scania's  bards  alone  belonging, 

The  craft  that  loosed  its  tongues  of  changing  sound, 
For  Ossian  played,  and  ghosts  of  heroes,  thronging, 

Leaned  on  their  spears  above  the  misty  mound. 
The  Cambrian  eagle,  round  his  eyrie  winging, 

Heard  the  wild  chant  through  mountain-passes  rolled, 
When  bearded  throats  chimed  in  with  mighty  singing, 

And  monarchs  listened,  in  their  torques  of  gold  : 


78 


Its  dreary  wail,  blent  with  the  sea-mews'  clangor, 
Surged  round  the  lonely  keep  of  Penmaen-Mawr ; 

It  pealed  aloud,  in  battle's  glorious  anger, 
Behind  the  banner  of  the  Blazing  Star  ! 


IV. 


The  strings  are  silent ;  who  shall  dare  to  wake  them, 

Though  later  deeds  demand  their  living  powers  ? 
Silent  in  other  lands,  what  hand  shall  make  them 

Leap  as  of  old,  to  shape  the  songs  of  ours  ? 
Here,  while  the  sapless  bulk  of  Europe  moulders, 

Springs  the  rich  blood  to  hero-veins  unsealed,  — 
Source  of  that  Will,  that  on  its  fearless  shoulders 

Would  bear  the  world's  fate  lightly  as  a  shield  : 
Here  moves  a  larger  life,  to  grander  measures 

Beneath  our  sky  and  through  our  forests  rung  ; 
Why  sleeps  the  harp,  forgetful  of  its  treasures,  — 

Buried  in  songs  that  never  yet  were  sung  ? 


v. 


Great,  solemn  songs,  that  with  majestic  sounding 
Should  swell  the  Nation's  heart  from  sea  to  sea  ; 

Informed  with  power,  with  earnest  hope  abounding, 
And  prophecies  of  triumph  yet  to  be  ! 


79 


Songs,  by  the  wild  wind  for  a  thousand  ages 

Hummed  o'er  our  central  prairies,  vast  and  lone  ; 
Glassed  by  the  Northern  lakes  in  crystal  pages, 

And  carved  by  hills  on  pinnacles  of  stone  ; 
Songs  chanted  now,  where  undiscovered  fountains 

Make  in  the  wilderness  their  babbling  home, 
And  through  the  deep-hewn  canons  of  the  mountains 

Plunge  the  cold  rivers  in  perpetual  foam ! 


VI. 


Sung  but  by  these  :  our  forests  have  no  voices  ; 

Rapt  with  no  loftier  strain  our  rivers  roll ; 
Far  in  the  sky,  no  song-crowned  peak  rejoices 

In  words  that  give  the  silent  air  a  soul. 
Wake,  mighty  Harp  !  and  thrill  the  shores  that  hearken 

For  the  first  peal  of  thine  immortal  rhyme  : 
Call  from  the  shadows  that  begin  to  darken 

The  beaming  forms  of  our  heroic  time  : 
Sing  us  of  deeds,  that  on  thy  strings  outsoaring 

The  ancient  soul  they  glorified  so  long, 
Shall  win  the  world  to  hear  thy  grand  restoring, 

And  own  thy  latest  thy  sublimest  song  ! 


80 


SEEAPION. 

COME  hither,  Child !  thou  silent,  shy 
Young  creature  of  the  glorious  eye ! 
Though  never  yet  by  ruder  air 
Than  father's  kiss  or  mother's  prayer 
Were  stirred  the  tendrils  of  thy  hair, 
The  sadness  of  a  soul  that  stands 
Withdrawn  from  Childhood's  frolic  bands, 
A  stranger  in  the  land,  I  trace 
Upon  thy  brow's  cherubic  grace 
The  tender  pleading  of  thy  face, 
Where  other  stars  than  Joy  and  Hope 
Have  cast  thy  being's  horoscope. 

For  thee,  the  threshold  of  the  world 
Is  yet  with  morning  dews  impearled  ; 
The  nameless  radiance  of  Birth 
Imbathes  thy  atmosphere  of  Earth, 


81 


And,  like  a  finer  sunshine,  swims 
Round  every  motion  of  thy  limbs  : 
The  sweet,  sad  wonder  and  surprise 
Of  waking  glimmers  in  thine  eyes, 
And  wiser  instinct,  purer  sense, 
And  gleams  of  rare  intelligence 
Betray  the  converse  held  by  thee 
In  the  angelic  family. 

Come  hither,  Boy !     For  while  I  press 
Thy  lips'  confiding  tenderness, 
Less  broad  and  dark  the  spaces  be 
Which  Life  has  set  'twixt  thee  and  me. 
Thy  soul's  white  feet  shall  soon  depart 
On  paths  I  walked  with  eager  heart ; 
God  give  thee,  in  His  kindly  grace, 
A  brighter  road,  a  loftier  place  ! 
I  see  thy  generous  nature  flow 
In  boundless  trust  to  friend  and  foe, 
And  leap,  despite  of  shocks  and  harms, 
To  clasp  the  world  in  loving  arms. 
I  see  that  glorious  circle  shrink 
Back  to  thy  feet,  at  Manhood's  brink, 
Narrowed  to  one,  one  image  fair, 
And  all  its  splendor  gathered  there. 
6 


The  shackles  of  experience  then 
Sit  lightly  as  on  meaner  men  : 
In  flinty  paths  thy  feet  may  bleed, 
Thorns  pierce  thy  flesh,  thou  shalt  not  heed, 
Till  when,  all  panting  from  the  task, 
Thine  arms  outspread  their  right  shall  ask, 
Thine  arms  outspread  that  right  shall  fly, 
The  star  shall  burst,  the  splendor  die  ! 
Go,  with  thy  happier  brothers  play, 
As  heedless  and  as  wild  as  they ; 
Seek  not  so  soon  thy  separate  way, 
Thou  lamb  in  Childhood's  field  astray ! 

Whence  earnest  thou  ?  what  angel  bore 
Thee  past  so  many  a  fairer  shore 
Of  guarding  love,  and  guidance  mild, 
To  drop  thee  on  this  barren  wild  ? 
Thy  soul  is  lonely  as  a  star, 
When  all  its  fellows  muffled  are, — 
A  single  star,  whose  light  appears 
To  glimmer  through  subduing  tears. 
The  father  who  begat  thee  sees 
In  thee  no  deeper  mysteries 
Than  load  his  heavy  ledger's  page, 
And  swell  for  him  thy  heritage. 


83 


A  hard,  cold  man,  of  punctual  face, 
Renowned  in  Credit's  holy-place, 
Whose  very  wrinkles  seem  arrayed 
In  cunning  hieroglyphs  of  trade,  — 
Whose  gravest  thought  but  just  unlocks 
The  problems  of  uncertain  stocks, — 
Whose  farthest  flights  of  hope  extend 
From  dividend  to  dividend. 
Thy  mother,  —  but  a  mother's  name 
Too  sacred  is,  too  sweet  for  blame. 
No  doubt  she  loves  thee,  —  loves  the  shy, 
Strange  beauty  of  thy  glorious  eye  ; 
Loves  the  soft  mouth,  whose  drooping  line 
Is  silent  music  ;  loves  to  twine 
Thy  silky  hair  in  ringlets  trim ; 
To  watch  thy  lightsome  play  of  limb  ; 
But,  God  forgive  me  !  I,  who  find 
The  soul  within  that  beauty  shrined, 
I  love  thee  more,  I  know  thy  worth 
Better,  than  she  who  gave  thee  birth. 

Are  they  thy  keepers  ?     They  would  thrust 
The  priceless  jewel  in  the  dust ; 
Would  tarnish  in  their  careless  hold 
The  vessel  of  celestial  gold. 


84 


Who  gave  them  thee  ?     What  fortune  lent 
Their  hands  the  delicate  instrument, 
Which  finer  hands  might  teach  to  hymn 
The  harmonies  of  Seraphim, 
Which  they  shall  make  discordant  soon, 
The  sweet  bells  jangled,  out  of  tune  ? 
Mine  eyes  are  dim  :  I  cannot  see 
The  purposes  of  Destiny, 
But  than  my  love  Heaven  could  not  shine 
More  lovingly,  if  thou  wert  mine  ! 
Rest  then  securely  on  my  heart : 
Give  me  thy  trust :  my  child  thou  art, 
And  I  shall  lead  thee  through  the  years 
To  Hopes  and  Passions,  Loves  and  Fears, 
Till,  following  up  Life's  endless  plan, 
A  strong  and  self-dependent  Man, 
I  see  thee  stand  and  strive  with  men  : 
Thy  Father  now,  thy  Brother  then. 


85 


MOAN,  ye  wild  winds  !  around  the  pane, 
And  fall,  thou  drear  December  rain  ! 
Fill  with  your  gusts  the  sullen  day, 
Tear  the  last  clinging  leaves  away ! 
Reckless  as  yonder  naked  tree, 
No  blast  of  yours  can  trouble  me. 

Give  me  your  chill  and  wild  embrace, 
And  pour  your  baptism  on  my  face  ; 
Sound  in  mine  ears  the  airy  moan 
That  sweeps  in  desolate  monotone, 
Where  on  the  unsheltered  hill-top  beat 
The  marches  of  your  homeless  feet ! 

Moan  on,  ye  winds  !  and  pour,  thou  rain  ! 
Your  stormy  sobs  and  tears  are  vain, 


86 


If  shed  for  her  whose  fading  eyes 
Will  open  soon  on  Paradise  : 
The  eye  of  Heaven  shall  blinded  be, 
Or  ere  ye  cease,  if  shed  for  me. 


87 


TAURUS. 


THE  Scorpion's  stars  crawl  down  behind  the  sun, 

And  when  he  drops  below  the  verge  of  day, 
The  glittering  fangs,  their  fervid  courses  run, 

Cling  to  his  skirts  and  follow  him  away. 
Then,  ere  the  heels  of  flying  Capricorn 

Have  touched  the  western    mountain's  fading 

rim, 

I  mark,  stern  Taurus,  through  the  twilight  gray 
The  glinting  of  thy  horn, 

And  sullen  front,  uprising  large  and  dim, 
Bent  to  the  starry  hunter's  sword,  at  bay. 


88 


ii. 


Thy  hoofs,  unwilling,  climb  the  sphery  vault ; 

Thy  red  eye  trembles  with  an  angry  glare, 
When  the  hounds  follow,  and  in  fierce  assault 

Bay  through  the  fringes  of  the  lion's  hair. 
The  stars  that  once  were  mortal  in  their  love, 

And  by  their  love  are  made  immortal  now, 
Cluster  like  golden  bees  upon  thy  mane, 
When  thou,  possessed  with  Jove, 

Bore  sweet  Europa's  garlands  on  thy  brow 
And  stole  her  from  the  green  Sicilian  plain. 


in. 


Type  of  the  stubborn  force  that  will  not  bend 

To  loftier  art,  —  soul  of  defiant  breath 
That  blindly  stands  and  battles  to  the  end, 

Nerving  resistance  with  the  throes  of  death,  — 
Majestic  Taurus  !  when  thy  wrathful  eye 

Flamed  brightest,  and  thy  hoofs  a  moment  stayed 
Their  march  at  Night's  meridian,  I  was  born  : 
But  in  the  western  sky, 

Like  sweet  Europa,  Love's  fair  star  delayed, 
To  hang  her  garland  on  thy  silver  horn. 


IV. 


Thou  giv'st  that  temper  of  enduring  mould, 

That  slights  the  wayward  bent  of  Destiny, — 
Such  as  sent  forth  the  shaggy  Jarls  of  old 

To  launch  their  dragons  on  the  unknown  sea : 
Such  as  kept  strong  the  sinews  of  the  sword, 

The  proud,  hot  blood  of  battle, —  welcome  made 
The  headsman's  axe,  the  rack,  the  martyr-fire. 
The  ignominious  cord, 

When  but  to  yield,  had  pomps  and  honors  laid 
On  heads  that  moulder  in  ignoble  mire. 


v. 


Night  is  the  summer  when  the  soul  grows  ripe 

With  Life's  full  harvest :  of  her  myriad  suns, 
Thou  dost  not  gild  the  quiet  herdsman's  pipe, 

Nor  royal  state,  that  royal  action  shuns. 
But  in  the  noontide  of  thy  ruddy  stars 

Thrive  strength,  and  daring,  and  the  blood  whence 

springs 
The  Heraclidean  seed  of  heroes  ;  then 

Were  sundered  Gaza's  bars  ; 
Then,  'mid  the  smitten  Hydra's  loosened  rings. 
His  slayer  rested,  in  the  Lernean  fen. 

B 

"     OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 


90 


VI. 


Thine  is  the  subtle  element  that  turns 

To  fearless  act  the  impulse  of  the  hour,  — 
The  secret  fire,  whose  flash  electric  burns 

To  every  source  of  passion  and  of  power. 
Therefore  I  hail  thee,  on  thy  glittering  track : 

Therefore  I  watch  thee,  when  the  night  grows 

dark, 

Slow-rising,  front  Orion's  sword  along 
The  starry  zodiac, 

And  from  thy  mystic  beam  demand  a  spark 
To  warm  my  soul  with  more  heroic  song. 


91 


THE   ODALISQUE. 

IN  marble  shells  the  fountain  splashes  ; 

Its  falling  spray  is  turned  to  stars, 
When  some  light  wind  its  pinion  dashes 

Against  thy  gilded  lattice-bars. 
Around  the  shafts,  in  breathing  cluster, 

The  roses  of  Damascus  run, 
And  through  the  summer's  moons  of  lustre 

The  tulip's  goblet  drinks  the  sun. 

The  day,  through  shadowy  arches  fainting, 

Reveals  the  garden's  burst  of  bloom, 
With  lights  of  shifting  iris  painting 

The  jasper  pavement  of  thy  room  : 
Enroofed  with  palm  and  laurel  bowers, 

Thou  seest,  beyond,  the  cool  kiosk, 
And  far  away  the  pencilled  towers 

That  shoot  from  many  a  stately  mosque. 


92 


Thou  hast  no  world  beyond  the  chamber 

Whose  inlaid  marbles  mock  the  flowers, 
Where  burns  thy  lord's  chibouk  of  amber, 

To  charm  the  languid   evening  hours  ; 
Where  sounds  the  lute's  impassioned  yearning 

Through  all  enchanted  tales  of  old, 
And  spicy  cressets,  dimly  burning, 

Swing  on  their  chains  of  Persian  gold. 

No  more,  in  half- remembered  vision, 

Thy  distant  childhood  comes  to  view  ; 
That  star-like  world  of  shapes  Elysian 

Has  faded  from  thy  morning's  blue  : 
The  eastern  winds  that  cross  the  Taurus 

Have  now  no  voice  of  home  beyond, 
Where  light  waves  foam  in  endless  chorus 

Against  the  walls  of  Trebizond. 

For  thee  the  Past  may  never  reckon 

Its  hoard  of  saddening  memories  o'er. 
Nor  shapes  from  out  the  Future  beckon 

To  joys  that  only  live  in  store. 
Thy  life  is  in  the  gorgeous  Present, 

An  Orient  summer,  warm  and  bright ; 
No  gleam  of  beauty  evanescent, 

But  one  long  time  of  deep  delight. 


93 


SORROWFUL   MUSIC. 

GIVE  me  music,  or  I  die ; 
Music,  wherein  Sorrow's  cry 
Is  a  sweet,  aerial  sigh,  — 
Where  Despair  is  harmony. 

Give  me  music,  such  as  winds 
To  the  ambushed  grief,  and  finds 
Clews  of  soft-enticing  sound, 
Notes  that  soothe  and  cannot  wound, 
Leading  with  a  tender  care 
Outward  into  brighter  air  : 
Music  which,  with  welcome  pain, 
Melted  from  the  master's  brain, 
When  his  sorrow,  freed  from  smart, 
Laid  its  head  upon  his  heart, 
And  the  measure,  broken,  slow, — 
Shed  with  tears  in  mingled  flow, — 


94 

All  its  mighty  secret  spake 
And  it  slept :  it  will  not  wake. 

Give  me  music,  sad  and  strong, 
Drawn  from  deeper  founts  than  Song ; 
More  impassioned,  full,  and  free 
Than  the  Poet's  numbers  be  : 
Music  which  can  master  thee, 
Stern  enchantress,  Memory ! 
Piercing  through  the  gloomy  stress 
Of  thy  gathered  bitterness, 
As  the  summer  lightnings  play 
Through  a  cloud's  edge  far  away. 

Give  me  music,  I  am  dumb  ; 
Choked  with  tears  that  never  come. 
Give  me  music  ;  sigh  or  word 
Such  a  sorrow  never  stirred, — 
Sorrow  that  with  blinding  pain 
Lies  like  fire  on  heart  and  brain. 
Earth  and  Heaven  bring  no  relief; 
I  am  dumb ;  this  weight  of  grief 
Locks  my  lips  ;  I  cannot  cry  : 
Give  me  music,  or  I  die. 


95 


THE   TULIP-TREE. 

Now  my  blood,  with  long-forgotten  fleetness, 

Bounds  again  to  Boyhood's  blithest  tune, 
While  I  drink  a  life  of  brimming  sweetness 

From  the  glory  of  the  breezy  June. 
Far  above,  the  fields  of  ether  brighten ; 

Forest  leaves  are  twinkling  in  their  glee ; 
And  the  daisy's  snows  around  me  whiten, 

Drifted  down  the  sloping  lea  ! 

On  the  hills  he  standeth  as  a  tower, 

Shining  in  the  morn,  —  the  Tulip-Tree  ! 
On  his  rounded  turrets  beats  the  shower, 

While  his  emerald  flags  are  flapping  free  : 
But  when  Summer,  'mid  her  harvests  standing, 

Pours  to  him  the  sun's  unmingied  wine, 
O'er  his  branches,  all  at  once  expanding, 

How  the  starry  blossoms  shine  ! 


96 


Through  the  glossy  leaves  they  burn,  unfolded, 

Like  the  fiery-breasted  oriole,  — 
Filled  with  sweetness,  as  a  thought  new  moulded 

Into  being  by  a  poet's  soul ! 
Violet  hills,  against  the  sunrise  lying, 

See  them  kindle  when  the  stars  grow  pale, 
And  their  lips,  unclosed  in  balmy  sighing, 

Sweeten  all  the  morning  gale. 

Then  all  day,  in  every  opening  chalice, 

Drains  their  honey-drops  the  revelling  bee, 
Till  the  dove-winged  Sleep  makes  thee  her  palace, 

Filled  with  song-like  murmurs,  Tulip-Tree  ! 
In  thine  arms  arc  rocked  the  dreams  enchanted 

Which  in  Childhood's  heart  their  dwelling  made ; 
Dreams,  whose  glory  to  my  brain  is  granted, 

When  I  lie  amid  thy  shade. 

Now,  while  Earth's  full  heart  is  throbbing  over 

With  its  wealth  of  light  and  life  and  joy, 
Who  can  feel  how  later  years  shall  cover 

With  their  blight  the  visions  of  the  boy  ? 
Who  can  see  the  shadows  downward  darken, 

While  the  splendid  morning  bids  aspire, 
Or  the  turf  upon  his  coffin  hearken, 

When  his  pulses  leap  with  fire ! 


97 


Wind  of  June,  that  sweep's!  the  rolling  meadow, 

Thou  shalt  wail  in  branches  rough  and  bare, 
While  the  tree,  o'erhung  with  storm  and  shadow, 

Writhes  and  creaks  amid  the  gusty  air. 
All  his  leaves,  like  shields  of  fairies  scattered, 

Then  shall  drop  before  the  North-wind's  spears, 
And  his  limbs,  by  hail  and  tempest  battered, 

Feel  the  weight  of  wintry  years. 

Yet,  why  cloud  the  rapture  and  the  glory 

Of  the  Beautiful,  bequeathed  us  now  ? 
Why  relinquish  all  the  Summer's  story, 

Calling  up  the  bleak  autumnal  bough  ? 
Let  thy  blossoms  in  the  morning  brighten, 

Happy  heart,  as  doth  the  Tulip-Tree, 
While  the  daisy's  snows  around  us  whiten, 

Drifted  down  the  sloping  lea  ! 
7 


98 


AUTUMNAL  VESPERS. 

THE  clarion  Wind,  that  blew  so  loud  at  morn, 

Whirling  a  thousand  leaves  from  every  bough 
Of  the  purple  woods,  has  not  a  whisper  now ; 

Hushed  on  the  uplands  is  the  huntsman's  horn, 

And  huskers  whistling  round  the  tented  corn  : 

The  snug  warm  cricket  lets  his  clock  run  down, 

Scared  by  the  chill,  sad  hour  that  makes  forlorn 
The  Autumn's  gold  and  brown. 

The  light  is  dying  out  on  field  and  wold  ; 

The  life  is  dying  in  the  leaves  and  grass. 
The  World's  last  breath  no  longer  dims  the  glass 
Of  waning  sunset,  yellow,  pale,  and  cold. 
His  genial  pulse,  which  Summer  made  so  bold, 

Has  ceased.     Haste,  Night,  and  spread  thy  de 
cent  pall ! 

The  silent,  stiffening  Frost  makes  havoc  :  fold 
The  darkness  over  all ! 


The  light  is  dying  out  o'er  all  the  land, 

And  in  my  heart  the  light  is  dying.     She, 
My  life's  best  life,  is  fading  silently 

From  Earth,  from  me,  and  from  the  dreams  we  planned, 

Since  first  Love  led  us  with  his  beaming  hand 

From  hope  to  hope,  yet  kept  his  crown  in  store. 

The  light  is  dying  out  o'er  all  the  land  : 
To  me  it  comes  no  more. 

The  blossom  of  my  heart,  she  shrinks  away, 

Stricken  with  deadly  blight :  more  wan  and  weak 
Her  love  replies  in  blanching  lip  and  cheek, 

And  gentler  in  her  dear  eyes,  day  by  day. 

God,  in  Thy  mercy,  bid  the  arm  delay, 

Which  through  her  being  smites  to  dust  my  own  ! 

Thou  gav'st  the  seed  thy  sun  and  showers  :  why  slay 
The  blossoms  yet  unblown  ? 

In  vain, —  in  vain  !     God  will  not  bid  the  Spring 
Replace  with  sudden  green  the  Autumn's  gold  ; 
And  as  the  night-mists,  gathering  damp  and  cold, 

Strike  up  the  vales  where  water-courses  sing, 

Death's  mist  shall  strike  along  her  veins,  and  cling 
Thenceforth  forever  round  her  glorious  frame  : 

For  all  her  radiant  presence,  May  shall  .bring 
A  memory  and  a  name. 


100 


What  know  the  woods,  that  soon  shall  be  so  stark  ? 
What  know  the  barren  fields,  the  songless  air, 
Locked  in  benumbing  cold,  of  blooms  more  fair 

In  mornings  ushered  by  the  April  lark  ? 

Weak  solace  this,  which  Grief  will  never  hark  ; 
Blind  as  a  bud  in  stiff  December's  mail, 

To  lift  her  look  beyond  the  frozen  dark 
No  memory  can  avail. 

I  never  knew  the  autumnal  eves  could  wear, 

With  all  their  pomp,  so  drear  a  hue  of  Death  ; 
I  never  knew  their  still  and  solemn  breath 

Could  rob  the  breaking  heart  of  strength  to  bear, 

Feeding  the  blank  submission  of  despair. 

Yet,  peace,  sad  soul !  reproach  and  pity  shine 

Suffused  through  starry  tears  :  bend  thou  in  prayer, 
Rebuked  by  Love  divine. 

Our  life  is  scarce  the  twinkle  of  a  star 

In  God's  eternal  day.     Obscure  and  dim 
With  mortal  clouds,  it  yet  may  beam  for  Him, 

And  darkened  here,  shine  fair  to  spheres  afar. 

I  will  be  patient,  lest  my  sorrow  bar 

His  grace  and  blessing,  and  I  fall  supine  : 

In  my  own  hands  my  want  and  weakness  are,  — 
My  strength,  O  God  !  in  Thine. 


101 


ODE  TO  SHELLEY. 


WHY  art  thou  dead  ?     Upon  the  hills  once  more 

The  golden  mist  of  waning  Autumn  lies  ; 
The  slow-pulsed  billows  wash  along  the  shore, 
And  phantom  isles  are  floating  in  the  skies. 
They  wait  for  thee  :  a  spirit  in  the  sand 

Hushes,  expectant  for  thy  coming  tread  ; 
The  light  wind  pants  to  lift  thy  trembling  hair ; 

Inward,  the  silent  land 
Lies  with  its  mournful  woods  ;  —  why  art  thou 

dead, 

When   Earth   demands   that   thou  shalt  call   her 
fair? 


102 


n. 


Why  art  thou  dead  ?     I  too  demand  thy  song, 

To  speak  the  language  yet  denied  to  mine, 
Twin-doomed  with  thee,  to  feel  the  scorn  of  Wrong, 

To  worship  Beauty  as  a  thing  divine  ! 
Thou  art  afar :  wilt  thou  not  soon  return 

To  tell  me  that  which  thou  hast  never  told  ? 
To  clasp  my  throbbing  hand,  and,  by  the  shore 
Or  dewy  mountain-fern, 

Pour  out  thy  heart  as  to  a  friend  of  old, 
Touched  with  a  twilight  sadness  ?     Nevermore. 


in. 


I  could  have  told  thee  all  the  sylvan  joy 

Of  trackless  woods ;  the  meadows  far  apart, 
Within  whose  fragrant  grass,  a  lonely  boy, 

I  thought  of  God  ;  the  trumpet  at  my  heart, 
When  on  bleak  mountains  roared  the  midnight  storm, 

And  I  was  bathed  in  lightning,  broad  and  grand  : 
O,  more  than  all,  with  soft  and  reverent  breath 
And  forehead  flushing  warm, 

I  would  have  led  thee  through  the  summer  land 
Of  early  Love,  and  past  my  dreams  of  Death  ! 


103 


IV. 


In  thee,  Immortal  Brother  !  had  I  found 

That  Voice  of  Earth,  that  fails  my  feebler  lines 
The  awful  speech  of  Rome's  sepulchral  ground ; 

The  dusky  hymn  of  Vallombrosa's  pines  ! 
From  thee  the  noise  of  Ocean  would  have  taken 

A  grand  defiance  round  the  moveless  shores, 
And  vocal  grown  the  Mountain's  silent  head : 
Canst  thou  not  yet  awaken 

Beneath  the  funeral  cypress  ?     Earth  implores 
Thy  presence  for  her  son  ;  —  why  art  thou  dead  ? 


v. 


I  do  but  rave  :  for  it  is  better  thus. 

Were  once  thy  starry  nature  given  to  mine, 
In  the  one  life  which  would  encircle  us 

My  voice  would  melt,  my  soul  be  lost  in  thine. 
Better  to  bear  the  far  sublimer  pain 

Of  Thought  that  has  not  ripened  into  speech, 
To  hear  in  silence  Truth  and  Beauty  sing 
Divinely  to  the  brain  ; 

For  thus  the  Poet  at  the  last  shall  reach 
His  own  soul's  voice,  nor  crave  a  brother's  string. 


104 


SICILIAN  WINE. 

I'VE  drunk  Sicilians  crimson  wine  ! 

The  blazing  vintage  pressed 

From  grapes  on  Etna's  breast, 

What  time  the  mellowing  autumn  sun  did  shine 

I've  drunk  the  wine  ! 

I  feel  its  blood  divine 

Poured  on  the  sluggish  tide  of  mine, 

Till,  kindling  slow, 

Its  fountains  glow 

With  the  light  that  swims 

On  their  trembling  brims, 

And  a  molten  sunrise  floods  my  limbs  ! 

What  do  I  here  ? 

I've  drunk  the  wine, 

And  lo  !  the  bright  blue  heaven  is  clear 

Above  the  ocean's  bluer  sphere, 


105 


Seen  through  the  long  arcades  of  pine, 

Inwoven  and  arched  with  vine  ! 

The  glades  are  green  below ; 

The  temple  shines  afar ; 

Above,  old  Etna's  snow 

Sparkles  with  many  an  icy  star : 

I  see  the  mountain  and  its  marble  wall, 

Where  gleaming  waters  fall 

And  voices  call, 

Singing  and  calling 

Like  chorals  falling 

Through  pearly  doors  of  some  Olympian  hall, 

Where  Love  holds  bacchanal. 

Sicilian  wine  !  Sicilian  wine  ! 

Summer,  and  Music,  and  Song  divine 

Are  thine,  —  all  thine! 

A  sweet  wind  over  the  roses  plays  ; 

The  wild  bee  hums  at  my  languid  ear ; 

The  mute-winged  moth  serenely  strays 

On  the  downy  atmosphere, 

Like  hovering  Sleep,  that  overweighs 

My  lids  with  his  shadow,  yet  comes  not  near. 

Who'll  share  with  me  this  languor  ? 

With  me  the  juice  of  Etna  sip  ? 

Who  press  the  goblet's  lip 


106 


Refusing  mine  the  while  with  love's  enchanting  anger  I 

Would  I  were  young  Adonis  now ! 

With  what  an  ardor  bold 

Within  my  arms  Pd  fold 

Fair  Aphrodite  of  Idalian  mould, 

And  let  the  locks  that  hide  her  gleaming  brow 

Fall  o'er  my  shoulder  as  she  lay 

With  the  fair  swell  of  her  immortal  breast 

Upon  my  bosom  pressed, 

Giving  Olympian  thrills  to  its  enamoured  clay ! 

Bacchus  and  Pan  have  fled  : 

No  heavy  Satyr  crushes  with  his  tread 

The  verdure  of  the  meadow  ground, 

But  in  their  stead 

The  Nymphs  are  leading  a  bewildering  round, 

Vivid  and  light,  as  o'er  some  flowering  rise 

A  dance  of  butterflies, 

Their  tossing  hair  with  slender  lilies  crowned, 

And  greener  ivy  than  o'erran 

The  brows  of  Bacchus  and  the  reed  of  Pan ! 

I  faint,  I  die  : 

The  flames  expire, 

That  made  my  blood  a  fluid  fire : 

Steeped  in  delicious  weariness  I  lie. 


107 

O,  lay  me  in  some  pearled  shell, 

Soft-balanced  on  the  rippling  sea, 

Where  sweet,  cheek-kissing  airs  may  wave 

Their  fresh  wings  over  me  ; 

Let  me  be  wafted  with  the  swell 

Of  Nereid  voices ;  let  no  billow  rave 

To  break  the  cool  green  crystal  of  the  sea  ; 

For  I  will  wander  free 

Past  the  blue  islands  and  the  fading  shores, 

To  Calpe  and  the  far  Azores, 

And  still  beyond,  and  wide  away 

Beneath  the  dazzling  wings  of  tropic  day, 

Where,  on  unruffled  seas, 

Sleep  the  green  isles  of  the  Hesperides. 

The  Triton's  trumpet  calls : 

I  hear,  I  wake,  I  rise : 

The  sound  peals  up  the  skies, 

And  mellowed  Echo  falls 

In  answer  back  from  Heaven's  cerulean  walls. 

Give  me  the  lyre  that  Orpheus  played  upon, 

Or  bright  Hyperion,  — 

Nay,  rather  come,  thou  of  the  mighty  bow, 

Come  thou  below, 

Leaving  thy  steeds  unharnessed  go ! 

Sing  as  thou  wilt,  my  voice  shall  dare  to  follow, 


108 


And  I  will  sun  me  in  thine  awful  glow, 

Divine  Apollo  ! 

Then  thou  thy  lute  shalt  twine 

With  Bacchic  tendrils  of  the  glorious  vine 

That  gave  Sicilian  wine  : 

And  henceforth  when  the  breezes  run 

Over  its  clusters,  ripening  in  the  sun, 

The  leaves  shall  still  be  playing, 

Unto  thy  lute  its  melody  repaying, 

And  I,  that  quaff,  shall  evermore  be  free 

To  mount  thy  car  and  ride  the  heavens  with  thee  ! 


109 


SUMMER'S   BACCHANAL. 

FILL  the  cup  from  some  secretest  fountain, 
Under  granite  ledges,  deep  and  low, 

Where  the  crystal  vintage  of  the  mountain 
Runs  in  foam  from  dazzling  fields  of  snow ! 

Some  lost  stream,  that  in  a  woodland  hollow 
Coils,  to  sleep  its  weariness  away, 

Shut  from  prying  stars,  that  fain  would  follow, 
In  the  emerald  glooms  of  hemlock  spray. 

Fill,  dear  friend,  a  goblet  cool  and  sparkling 
As  the  sunlight  of  October  morns,  — 

Not  for  us  the  crimson  wave,  that  darkling 
Stains  the  lips  of  olden  drinking-horns  ! 


110 


We  will  quaff,  beneath  the  noontide  glowing, 
Draughts  of  nectar,  sweet  as  faery  dew  ; 

Couched  on  ferny  banks,  where  light  airs  blowing, 
Shake  the  leaves  between  us  and  the  blue. 


We  will  pledge,  in  breathless,  long  libation, 
All  we  have  been,  or  have  sworn  to  be,  — 

Fame,  and  Joy,  and  Love's  dear  adoration, — 
Summer's  lusty  bacchanals  are  we  ! 

Fill  again,  and  let  our  goblets,  clashing, 
Stir  the  feathery  ripples  on  the  brim  : 

Let  the  light,  within  their  bosoms  flashing, 
Leap  like  youth  to  every  idle  limb  ! 

Round  the  white  roots  of  the  fragrant  lily, 
And  the  mossy  hazels,  purple-stained, 

Once  the  music  of  these  waters  chilly 
Gave  return  for  all  the  sweetness  drained. 


How  that  rare,  delicious,  woodland  flavor 
Mocked  my  palate  in  the  fever  hours, 

When  I  pined  for  springs  of  coolest  savor, 
As  the  burning  Earth  for  thunder-showers 


Ill 


In  the  wave,  which  through  my  maddened  dreaming 
Flowed  to  cheat  me,  fill  the  cups  again  ! 

Drink,  dear  friend,  to  life  which  is  not  seeming, — 
Fresh  as  this  to  manhood's  heart  and  brain  ! 


Fill,  fill  high !  and  while  our  goblets,  ringing, 
Shine  with  vintage  of  the  mountain-snow, 

Youth  shall  bid  his  Fountain,  blithely  springing, 
Brim  our  souls  to  endless  overflow  ! 


112 


STORM-LINES. 

WHEN  the  rains  of  November  are  dark  on  the  hills,  and 

the  pine-trees  incessantly  roar 
To  the  sound  of  the  wind-beaten  crags,  and  the  floods 

that  in  foam  through  their  black  channels  pour  : 

When  the  breaker-lined  coast  stretches  dimly  afar, 
through  the  desolate  waste  of  the  gale, 

And  the  clang  of  the  sea-gull  at  nightfall  is  heard  from 
the  deep,  like  a  mariner's  wail : 

When  the  gray  sky  drops  low,  and  the  forest  is  bare, 
and  the  laborer  is  housed  from  the  storm, 

And  the  world  is  a  blank,  save  the  light  of  his  home 
through  the  gust  shining  redly  and  warm  :  — 


113 


Go  thou  forth,  if  the  brim  of  thy  heart  with  its  tropical 

fulness  of  life  overflow, — 
If  the  sun  of  thy  bliss  in  the  zenith  is  hung,  nor  a 

shadow  reminds  thee  of  woe  ! 

Leave  the  home  of  thy  love  ;  leave  thy  labors  of  fame  ; 

in  the  rain  and  the  darkness  go  forth, 
When  the  cold  winds  unpausingly  wail  as  they  drive 

from  the  cheerless  expanse  of  the  North. 

Thou  shalt  turn  from  the  cup  that  was  mantling  before  ; 

thou  shalt  hear  the  eternal  despair 
Of  the  hearts  that  endured  and  were  broken  at  last, 

from  the  hills  and  the  sea  and  the  air ! 

Thou  shalt  hear  how  the  Earth,  the  maternal,  laments 
for  the  children  she  nurtured  with  tears,  — 

How  the  forest  but  deepens  its  wail  and  the  breakers 
their  roar,  with  the  march  of  the  years  ! 

Then  the  gleam  of  thy  hearth-fire  shall  dwindle  away, 
and  the  lips  of  thy  loved  ones  be  still  ; 

And  thy  soul  shall  lament  in  the  moan  of  the  storm, 
sounding  wide  on  the  shelterless  hill. 
8 


114 


All  the  woes  of  existence  shall  stand  at  thy  heart,  and 

the  sad  eyes  of  myriads  implore, 
In   the    darkness  and  storm  of  their  being,  the   ray, 

streaming  out  through  thy  radiant  door. 

Look  again :  how  that  star  of  thy  Paradise  dims, 
through  the  warm  tears,  unwittingly  shed  ;  — 

Thou  art  man,  and  a  sorrow  so  bitterly  wrung  never 
fell  on  the  dust  of  the  Dead  ! 


Let  the  rain  of  the  midnight  beat  cold  on  thy  cheek, 
and  the  proud  pulses  chill  in  thy  frame, 

Till  the  love  of  thy  bosom  is  grateful  and  sad,  and 
thou  turn'st  from  the  mockery  of  Fame ! 

Take  with  humble  acceptance  the  gifts  of  thy  life  ;  let 
thy  joy  touch  the  fountain  of  tears  ; 

For  the  soul  of  the  Earth,  in  endurance  and  pain,  gath 
ers  promise  of  happier  years  ! 


115 


THE   TWO  VISIONS. 

THROUGH  days  of  toil,  through  nightly  fears, 
A  vision  blessed  my  heart  for  years  ; 
And  so  secure  its  features  grew, 
My  heart  believed  the  blessing  true. 

I  saw  her  there,  a  household  dove, 
In  consummated  peace  of  love, 
And  sweeter  joy  and  saintlier  grace 
Breathed  o'er  the  beauty  of  her  face  : 

The  joy  and  grace  of  love  at  rest, 
The  fireside  music  of  the  breast, 
When  vain  desires  and  restless  schemes 
Sleep,  pillowed  on  our  early  dreams. 


116 

Nor  her  alone  :  beside  her  stood, 
In  gentler  types,  our  love  renewed  ; 
Our  separate  beings  one,  in  Birth, — 
The  darling  miracles  of  Earth. 

The  mother's  smile,  the  children's  kiss, 
And  home's  serene,  abounding  bliss; 
The  fruitage  of  a  life  that  bore 
But  idle  summer  blooms  before  : 

Such  was  the  vision,  far  and  sweet, 
That,  still  beyond  Time's  lagging  feet, 
Lay  glimmering  in  my  heart  for  years, 
Dim  with  the  mist  of  happy  tears. 

That  vision  died,  in  drops  of  woe, 
In  blotting  drops,  dissolving  slow : 
Now,  toiling  day  and  sorrowing  night, 
Another  vision  fills  my  sight. 

A  cold  mound  in  the  winter  snow ; 
A  colder  heart  at  rest  below  ; 
A  life  in  utter  loneness  hurled, 
And  darkness  over  all  the  world. 


117 


THE   LIFE   OF  EARTH. 

THE  breeze  is  blowing  fresh  and  strong, 

The  rocking  shallop  chafes  its  chain, 
And  the  billows  are  breaking  in  swells  of  song, 

The  rhythmical  joy  of  the  restless  main. 
A  spirited  stallion  paws  the  sand  ; 

A  hound  is  watching  with  eager  eye  ; 
The  tramp  of  armies  is  felt  in  the  land, 

And  banners  are  dancing  beneath  the  sky ! 

Let  horns  be  heard  in  the  gray  ravine, 

And  stormy  songs  from  off  the  sea  ! 
There's  blood  in  my  heart,  where  tears  have  been, 

And  the  blood  of  youth  is  warm  and  free. 
Leave,  weary  Soul,  the  lifeless  lore 

That  kept  these  limbs  in  a  slothful  rust : 
Lie  down  to  rest  on  the  quiet  shore  — 

The  Dust  has  need  of  the  life  of  dust ! 


118 


Thou  art  weak  and  pallid,  O  form  of  flesh, 

Where  the  rubicund  dawn  once  left  its  hue, 
But  the  Earth  shall  bare  her  bosom  afresh, 

And  give  thee  the  milk  of  manhood  anew. 
Thy  locks  shall  toss  on  the  mountain  air, 

Thy  limbs  shall  cool  in  the  sparkling  brine ; 
She  will  brace  thy  nerves  with  her  forest-fare, 

And  warm  thy  veins  with  generous  wine ! 

Thy  loins  shall  grow  to  a  pard-like  power 

On  the  windy  slopes  of  the  riven  hills ; 
Thou  shalt  bare  thy  breast  to  the  arrowy  shower, 

And  catch  in  thine  arms  the  icy  rills ! 
Thy  vigorous  blood  shall  exult  the  same, 

Though  fevered  cares  in  the  spirit  start, 
As  a  pine,  when  the  mountain  is  swathed  in  flame, 

Keeps  green  and  fresh  in  his  spicy  heart. 

Thou  shalt  go  where  the  battle-clarions  blare, 

As  heroes  went,  ere  the  brain  was  lord ; 
Thine  eye  with  the  soldier's  lust  shall  glare, 

Thy  heart  shall  smite  in  the  clanging  sword. 
The  cannon  will  bellow  thy  mad  desire, 

And  the  shock  of  combat  thine  arm  employ, 
Till  the  thews  are  steel,  and  the  veins  are  fire, 

And  death  at  last  is  a  terrible  joy ! 


119 


Then  tighten  the  girth  and  loosen  the  rein ! 

Unleash  the  baying,  impatient  hound, 
And  deep  in  the  surging  and  seething  main 

Let  every  quivering  oar  be  drowned. 
We  are  free  !  we  have  quelled  the  tyrant  Soul 

We  shall  fill  the  world  with  our  rebel  mirth, 
While  the  laughing  vineyards  crown  the  bowl 

That  brims  for  us  with  the  Life  of  Earth ! 


120 

•'    •• 


STORM  SONG. 

THE  clouds  are  scudding  across  the  moon, 

A  misty  light  is  on  the  sea  ; 
The  wind  in  the  shrouds  has  a  wintry  tune, 

And  the  foam  is  flying  free. 

Brothers,  a  night  of  terror  and  gloom 
Speaks  in  the  cloud  and  gathering  roar ; 

Thank  God,  He  has  given  us  broad  sea-room, 
A  thousand  miles  from  shore. 

Down  with  the  hatches  on  those  who  sleep  ! 

The  wild  and  whistling  deck  have  we ; 
Good  watch,  my  brothers,  to-night  we'll  keep, 

While  the  tempest  is  on  the  sea ! 


121 


Though  the  rigging  shriek  in  his  terrible  grip, 
And  the  naked  spars  be  snapped  away, 

Lashed  to  the  helm,  we'll  drive  our  ship 
In  the  teeth  of  the  whelming  spray ! 

Hark !  how  the  surges  o'erleap  the  deck  ! 

Hark  !  how  the  pitiless  tempest  raves  ! 
Ah,  daylight  will  look  upon  many  a  wreck 

Drifting  over  the  desert  waves. 

Yet,  courage,  brothers  !  we  trust  the  wave, 
With  God  above  us,  our  guiding  chart : 

So,  whether  to  harbor  or  ocean-grave, 
Be  it  still  with  a  cheery  heart ! 


122 


SONG. 

I  PLUCKED  for  thee  the  wilding  rose 

And  wore  it  on  my  breast, 
And  there,  till  daylight's  dusky  close, 

Its  silken  cheek  was  pressed  ; 
Its  desert  breath  was  sweeter  far 

Than  palace-rose  could  be, 
Sweeter  than  all  Earth's  blossoms  are, 

But  that  thou  gav'st  to  me. 

I  kissed  its  leaves,  in  fond  despite 

Of  lips  that  failed  my  own, 
And  Love  recalled  that  sacred  night 

His  blushing  flower  was  blown. 
I  vowed,  no  rose  should  rival  mine, 

Though  withered  now,  and  pale, 
Till  those  are  plucked,  whose  white  buds  twine 

Above  thy  bridal  veil. 


123 


THE   WAVES. 


CHILDREN  are  we 

Of  the  restless  sea, 
Swelling  in  anger  or  sparkling  in  glee  ; 

We  follow  our  race, 

In  shifting  chase, 
Over  the  boundless  ocean-space  ! 
Who  hath  beheld  where  the  race  begun  ? 

Who  shall  behold  it  run  ? 

Who  shall  behold  it  run  ? 


II. 


When  the  smooth  airs  keep 
Their  noontide  sleep, 
We  dimple  the  cheek  of  the  dreaming  deep ; 


124 

When  the  rough  winds  come 

From  their  cloudy  home, 
At  the  tap  of  the  hurricane's  thunder-drum, 
Deep  are  the  furrows  of  wrath  we  plough, 

Ridging  his  darkened  brow  ! 

Ridging  his  darkened  brow  ! 


in. 


Over  us  born, 

The  unclouded  Morn 
Trumpets  her  joy  with  the  Triton's  horn, 

And  sun  and  star 

By  the  thousand  are 
Orbed  in  our  glittering,  near  and  far  : 
And  the  splendor  of  Heaven,  the  pomp  of  Day, 

Shine  in  our  laughing  spray ! 

Shine  in  our  laughing  spray ! 


IV. 


We  murmur  our  spell 
Over  sand  and  shell ; 
We  girdle  the  reef  with  a  combing  swell ; 


125 

And  bound  in  the  vice 

Of  the  Arctic  ice, 

We  build  us  a  palace  of  grand  device,- 
Walls  of  crystal  and  splintered  spires, 

Flashing  with  diamond  fires  ! 

Flashing  with  diamond  fires  ! 


v. 


In  the  endless  round 

Of  our  motion  and  sound, 
The  fairest  dwelling  of  Beauty  is  found, 

And  with  voice  of  strange 

And  solemn  change, 

The  elements  speak  in  our  world-wide  range, 
Harping  the  terror,  the  might,  the  mirth, 

Sorrows  and  hopes  of  Earth  ! 

Sorrows  and  hopes  of  Earth  ! 


126 


SONG. 

FROM  the  bosom  of  ocean  I  seek  thee, 

Thou  lamp  of  my  spirit  afar, 
As  the  seaman,  adrift  in  the  darkness, 

Looks  up  for  the  beam  of  his  star ; 
And  when  on  the  moon-lighted  water 

The  spirits  of  solitude  sleep, 
My  soul,  in  the  light  of  thy  beauty, 

Lies  hushed  as  the  waves  of  the  deep. 

As  the  shafts  of  the  sunrise  are  broken 

Far  over  the  glittering  sea, 
Thou  hast  dawned  on  the  waves  of  my  dreaming, 

And  each  thought  has  a  sparkle  of  thee. 
And  though,  with  the  white  sail  distended, 

I  speed  from  the  vanishing  shore, 
Thou  wilt  give  to  the  silence  of  ocean 

The  spell  of  thy  beauty  the  more. 


127 


CRICKET   SONG. 

WELCOME  with  thy  clicking,  cricket ! 

Clicking  songs  of  sober  mirth  ; 
Autumn,  stripping  field  and  thicket, 

Brings  thee  to  my  hearth, 
Where  thy  clicking  shrills  and  quickens, 
While  the  mist  of  twilight  thickens. 

Lately,  by  the  garden  wicket, 

Where  the  thick  grass  grew  unctipt, 
And  the  rill  beside  thee,  cricket, 

Silver-trickling  slipt, 
Thou,  in  midday's  silent  glitter, 
Mocked  the  flickering  linnet's  twitter. 

Now  thou  art,  my  cheerful  cricket, 
Nimble  quickener  of  my  song ; 

Not  a  thought  but  thou  shall  nick  it 
In  thy  lowly  tongue, 


128 

And  my  clock,  the  moments  ticking, 
Is  thy  constant  clicking,  clicking. 

No  annoy,  good-humored  cricket, 
With  thy  trills  is  ever  blent ; 

Spleen  of  mine,  how  dost  thou  trick  it 
To  a  calm  content ! 

So,  by  thicket,  hearth,  or  wicket, 

Click  thy  little  lifetime,  cricket ! 


129 


WORDSWORTH. 

I  SAW  thee  not,  what  time  mine  eyes  beheld 
Far-off  Helvellyn  skirt  the  misty  sea, 
When  wild  Manx  waters  foamed  and  tumbled  free 
Around  my  keel :  I  saw  thee  not,  when  swelled 
Beyond  Northumbrian  moors  the  soft-blue  line 
Of  mountain  chains  that  look  on  Windermere  ; 
Yet  was  it  joy  to  know  thy  paths  so  near, 
Thy  voice  on  all  those  hills,  O  Bard  divine  ! 
But  I  shall  see  thee  where  thou  sittest  now, 
Musing,  uplift  o'er  deeps  of  diamond  air, 
And  I  shall  feel  the  splendor  of  thy  brow 
Thrown  on  the  scanty  wreath  that  binds  my  hair, 
As,  looking  down  benignly  on  my  place, 
Thou  read'st  the  reverence  in  my  lifted  face. 
9 


130 


SONNET. 

TO  G.  H.  B. 

You  comfort  me  as  one  that,  knowing  Fate, 

Would  paint  her  visage  kinder  than  you  deem ; 

You  say,  my  only  bliss  that  is  no  dream 

She  clouds,  but  makes  not  wholly  desolate. 

Ah,  Friend  !  your  heart  speaks  words  of  little  weight 

To  veil  that  sadder  knowledge,  learned  in  song, 

And  'gainst  your  solace  Grief  has  made  me  strong: 

The  Gods  are  jealous  of  our  low  estate  ; 

They  give  not  Fame  to  Love,  nor  Love  to  Fame  ; 

Power  cannot  taste  the  joy  the  humbler  share, 

Nor  holy  Beauty  breathe  in  Luxury's  air, 

And  all  in  darkness  Genius  feeds  his  flame. 

We  build  and  build,  poor  fools !  and  all  the  while 

Some  Demon  works  unseen,  and  saps  the  pile. 


CALIFORNIAN  BALLADS  AND  POEMS, 


(131) 


133 


MANUELA. 

FROM   the   doorway,   Manuela,   in   the    sheeny  April 

morn, 
Southward   looks,  along   the  valley,  over  leagues  of 

gleaming  corn  ; 
Where  the  mountain's  misty  rampart  like  the  wall  of 

Eden  towers, 
And  the  isles  of  oak  are  sleeping  on  a  painted  sea  of 

flowers. 

All  the  air  is  full  of  music,  for  the  winter  rains  are 
o'er, 

And  the  noisy  magpies  chatter  from  the  budding  syca 
more  ; 

Blithely  frisk  unnumbered  squirrels,  over  all  the  grassy 
slope  ; 

Where  the  airy  summits  brighten,  nimbly  leaps  the 
antelope. 


134 


Gentle  eyes  of  Manuela  !  tell  me  wherefore  do  ye 
rest 

On  the  oak's  enchanted  islands  and  the  flowery  ocean's 
breast  ? 

Tell  me  wherefore,  down  the  valley,  ye  have  traced 
the  highway's  mark 

Far  beyond  the  belts  of  timber,  to  the  mountain-shad 
ows  dark  ? 

Ah,  the  fragrant  bay  may  blossom  and  the  sprouting 

verdure  shine 
With  the  tears  of  amber  dropping  from  the  tassels  of 

the  pine, 
And  the  morning's  breath  of  balsam  lightly  brush  her 

sunny  cheek,  — 
Little   recketh  Manuela  of  the  tales  of  Spring    they 

speak. 

When  the  Summer's  burning  solstice  on  the  mountain- 
harvests  glowed, 

She  had  watched  a  gallant  horseman  riding  down  the 
valley  road  ; 

Many  times  she  saw  him  turning,  looking  back  with 
parting  thrills, 

Till  amid  her  tears  she  lost  him,  in  the  shadow  of  the 
hills. 


135 


Ere  the  cloudless  moons  were  over,  he  had  passed  the 

Desert's  sand, 
Crossed   the    rushing  Colorado  and   the  wild  Apache 

Land, 
And  his  laden  mules  were  driven,  when  the  time  of 

rains  began, 
With  the  traders  of  Chihuahua,  to   the  Fair  of  San 

Juan. 

Therefore  watches  Manuela,  —  therefore  lightly  doth 

she  start, 
When  the  sound  of  distant  footsteps  seems  the  beating 

of  her  heart ; 
Not   a  wind   the    green   oak  rustles   or   the  redwood 

branches  stirs, 
But  she  hears  the  silver  jingle  of  his  ringing  bit  and 

spurs. 

Often,  out  the  hazy  distance,  come  the  horsemen,  day 

by  day, 
But  they  come  not  as  Bernardo,  —  she  can  see  it,  far 

away ; 
Well   she   knows  the  airy  gallop  of  his  mettled  ala- 

zan, 
Light  as  any  antelope  upon  the  Hills  of  Gavilan. 


136 


She  would  know  him  'mid  a  thousand,  by  his  free  and 

gallant  air  ; 
By  the    featly-knit   sarape,   such   as   wealthy   traders 

wear; 
By  his    broidered   calzoneros   and   his    saddle,  gayly 

spread, 
With  its  cantle  rimrned  with  silver,  and  its  horn  a  lion's 

head. 

None  like  him  the  light  riata  on  the  maddened  bull  can 
throw : 


None  amid  the   mountain-canons  track  like  him  the 

stealthy  doe ; 
And  at  all  the  Mission  festals,  few  indeed  the  revellers 

are 
Who  can  dance  with  him  the  jota,  touch  with  him  the 

gay  guitar. 

He    has    said    to    Manuela,   and    the    echoes    linger 

still 
In  the  cloisters  of  her  bosom,  with  a  secret,  tender 

thrill, 
When  the   bay  again  has  blossomed,  and    the  valley 

stands  in  corn, 
Shall  the  bells  of  Santa  Clara  usher  in  the  wedding 

morn. 


137 


He  has  pictured  the  procession,  all  in  holiday  at 
tire, 

And  the  laugh  of  bridal  gladness,  when  they  see  the 
distant  spire  ; 

Then  their  love  shall  kindle  newly,  and  the  world  be 
doubly  fair 

In  the  cool,  delicious  crystal  of  the  summer  morning 
air. 

Tender  eyes  of  Manuela !  what  has  dimmed  your  lus 
trous  beam  ? 

'Tis  a  tear  that  falls  to  glitter  on  the  casket  of  her 
dream. 

Ah,  the  eye  of  Love  must  brighten,  if  its  watches 
would  be  true, 

For  the  star  is  falsely  mirrored  in  the  rose's  drop  of 
dew ! 

But  her  eager  eyes  rekindle,  and  her  breathless  bosom 

thrills, 
As  she  sees  a  horseman  moving  in  the  shadow  of  the 

hills : 
Now  in  love   and  fond  thanksgiving  they  may  loose 

their  pearly  tides, — 
'Tis  the  alazan  that  gallops,  'tis  Bernardo's  self  that 

rides ! 


138 


THE   FIGHT   OF  PASO  DEL   MAR. 

GUSTY  and  raw  was  the  morning, 

A  fog  hung  over  the  seas, 
And  its  gray  skirts,  rolling  inland, 

Were  torn  by  the  mountain  trees ; 
No  sound  was  heard  but  the  dashing 

Of  waves  on  the  sandy  bar, 
When  Pablo  of  San  Diego 

Rode  down  to  the  Paso  del  Mar. 

The  pescador,  out  in  his  shallop, 

Gathering  his  harvest  so  wide, 
Sees  the  dim  bulk  of  the  headland 

Loom  over  the  waste  of  the  tide  ; 
He  sees,  like  a  white  thread,  the  pathway 

Wind  round  on  the  terrible  wall, 
Where  the  faint,  moving  speck  of  the  rider 

Seems  hovering  close  to  its  fall. 


139 

Stout  Pablo  of  San  Diego 

Rode  down  from  the  hills  behind  ; 
With  the  bells  on  his  gray  rnule  tinkling, 

He  sang  through  the  fog  and  wind. 
Under  his  thick,  misted  eyebrows, 

Twinkled  his  eye  like  a  star, 
And  fiercer  he  sang  as  the  sea-winds 

Drove  cold  on  the  Paso  del  Mar.    x 

Now  Bernal,  the  herdsman  of  Chino, 

Had  travelled  the  shore  since  dawn, 
Leaving  the  ranches  behind  him  — 

Good  reason  had  he  to  be  gone  ! 
The  blood  was  still  red  on  his  dagger, 

The  fury  was  hot  in  his  brain, 
And  the  chill,  driving  scud  of  the  breakers 

Beat  thick  on  his  forehead  in  vain. 

With  his  poncho  wrapped  gloomily  round  himr 

He  mounted  the  dizzying  road, 
And  the  chasms  and  steeps  of  the  headland 

Were  slippery  and  wet,  as  he  trod  : 
Wild  swept  the  wind  of  the  ocean, 

Rolling  the  fog  from  afar, 
When  near  him  a  mule-bell  came  tinkling, 

Midway  on  the  Paso  del  Mar. 


140 

"  Back  !  "  shouted  Bernal,  full  fiercely, 

And  "  Back  !  "  shouted  Pablo,  in  wrath, 
As  his  mule  halted,  startled  and  shrinking, 

On  the  perilous  line  of  the  path. 
The  roar  of  devouring  surges 

Came  up  from  the  breakers'  hoarse  war ; 
And  "Back,  or  you  perish  !  "  cried  Bernal, 

"  I  turn  not  on  Paso  del  Mar  !  " 

The  gray  mule  stood  firm  as  the  headland : 

He  clutched  at  the  jingling  rein, 
When  Pablo  rose  up  in  his  saddle 

And  smote  till  he  dropped  it  again. 
A  wild  oath  of  passion  swore  Bernal, 

And  brandished  his  dagger,  still  red, 
While  fiercely  stout  Pablo  leaned  forward, 

And  fought  o'er  his  trusty  mule's  head. 

They  fought  till  the  black  wall  below  them 

Shone  red  through  the  misty  blast ; 
Stout  Plablo  then  struck,  leaning  farther, 

The  broad  breast  of  Bernal  at  last. 
And,  frenzied  with  pain,  the  swart  herdsman 

Closed  on  him  with  terrible  strength, 
And  jerked  him,  despite  of  his  struggles, 

Down  from  the  saddle  at  length. 


141 

They  grappled  with  desperate  madness, 

On  the  slippery  edge  of  the  wall ; 
They  swayed  on  the  brink,  and  together 

Reeled  out  to  the  rush  of  the  fall. 
A  cry  of  the  wildest  death-anguish 

Rang  faint  through  the  mist  afar, 
And  the  riderless  mule  went  homeward 

From  the  fight  of  the  Paso  del  Mar. 


142 


THE   PINE   FOREST  OF  MONTEREY. 

WHAT  point  of  Time,  unchronicled,  and  dim 
As  yon  gray  mist  that  canopies  your  heads, 
Took  from  the  greedy  wave  and  gave  the  sun 
Your  dwelling-place,  ye  gaunt  and  hoary  Pines  ? 
When,  from  the  barren  bosoms  of  the  hills, 
With  scanty  nurture,  did  ye  slowly  climb, 
Of  these  remote  and  latest-fashioned  shores 
The  first-born  forest  ?     Titans  gnarled  and  rough, 
Such  as  from  out  subsiding  Chaos  grew 
To  clothe  the  cold  loins  of  the  savage  earth, 
What  fresh  commixture  of  the  elements, 
What  earliest  thrill  of  life,  the  stubborn  soil 
Slow-mastering,  engendered  ye  to  give 
The  hills  a  mantle  and  the  wind  a  voice  ? 
Along  the  shore  ye  lift  your  rugged  arms, 
Blackened  with  many  fires,  and  with  hoarse  chant  - 


143 


Unlike  the  fibrous  lute  your  co-mates  touch 
In  elder  regions  —  fill  the  awful  stops 
Between  the  crashing  cataracts  of  the  surf. 
Have  ye  no  tongue,  in  all  your  sea  of  sound, 
To  syllable  the  secret,  —  no  still  voice 
To  give  your  airy  myths  a  shadowy  form, 
And  make  us  of  lost  centuries  of  lore 
The  rich  inheritors  ? 

The  sea-winds  pluck 

Your  mossy  beards,  and  gathering  as  they  sweep, 
Vex  your  high  heads,  and  with  your  sinewy  arms 
Grapple  and  toil  in  vain.     A  deeper  roar, 
Sullen  and  cold,  and  rousing  into  spells 
Of  stormy  volume,  is  your  sole  reply. 
Anchored  in  firm-set  rock,  ye  ride  the  blast. 
And  from  the  promontory's  utmost  verge 
Make  signal  o'er  the  waters.     So  ye  stood, 
When,  like  a  star,  behind  the  lonely  sea, 
Far  shone  the  white  speck  of  Grijalva's  sail  ; 
And  when,  through  driving  fog,  the  breaker's  sound 
Frighted  Otondo's  men,  your  spicy  breath 
Played  as  in  welcome  round  their  rusty  helms, 
And  backward  from  its  staff  shook  out  the  folds 
Of  Spain's  emblazoned  banner. 


144 


Ancient  Pines, 

Ye  bear  no  record  of  the  years  of  man. 
Spring  is  your  sole  historian,  —  Spring,  that  paints 
These  savage  shores  with  hues  of  Paradise  ; 
That  decks  your  branches  with  a  fresher  green, 
And  through  your  lonely,  far  canadas  pours 
Her  floods  of  bloom,  rivers  of  opal  dye 
That  wander  down  to  lakes  and  widening  seas 
Of  blossom  and  of  fragrance,  —  laughing  Spring, 
That  with  her  wanton  blood  refills  your  veins, 
And  weds  ye  to  your  juicy  youth  again 
With  a  new  ring,  the  while  your  rifted  bark 
Drops  odorous  tears.     Your  knotty  fibres  yield 
To  the  light  touch  of  her  unfailing  pen, 
As  freely  as  the  lupin's  violet  cup. 
Ye  keep,  close-locked,  the  memories  of  her  stay, 
As  in  their  shells  the  avelones  keep 
Morn's  rosy  flush  and  moonlight's  pearly  glow. 
The  wild  north-west,  that  from  Alaska  sweeps, 
To  drown  Point  Lobos  with  the  icy  scud 
And  white  sea-foam,  may  rend  your  boughs  and  leave 
Their  blasted  antlers  tossing  in  the  gale  ; 
Your  steadfast  hearts  are  mailed  against  the  shock, 
And  on  their  annual  tablets  nought  inscribe 
Of  such  rude  visitation.     Ye  are  still 
The  simple  children  of  a  guiltless  soil, 


145 


And  in  your  natures  show  the  sturdy  grain 

That  passion  cannot  jar,  nor  force  relax, 

Nor  aught  but  sweet  and  kindly  airs  compel 

To  gentler  mood.     No  disappointed  heart 

Has  sighed  its  bitterness  beneath  your  shade  ; 

No  angry  spirit  ever  came  to  make 

Your  silence  its  confessional ;  no  voice, 

Grown  harsh  in  Crime's  great  market-place,  the  world, 

Tainted  with  blasphemy  your  evening  hush 

And  aromatic  air.     The  deer  alone, — 

The  ambushed  hunter  that  brings  down  the  deer,  — 

The  fisher  wandering  on  the  misty  shore 

To  watch  sea-lions  wallow  in  the  flood, — 

The  shout,  the  sound  of  hoofs  that  chase  and  fly, 

When  swift  vaqueros,  dashing  through  the  herds, 

Ride  down  the  angry  bull, —  perchance,  the  song 

Some  Indian  heired  of  long-forgotten  sires, — 

Disturb  your  solemn  chorus. 

Stately  Pines, 

But  few  more  years  around  the  promontory 
Your  chant  will  meet  the  thunders  of  the  sea. 
No  more,  a  barrier  to  the  encroaching  sand,. 
Against  the  surf  ye'll  stretch  defiant  arm, 
Though  with  its  onset  and  besieging  shock 
Your  firm  knees  tremble.     Never  more  the  wind 
10 


146 


Shall  pipe  shrill  music  through  your  mossy  beards, 

Nor  sunset's  yellow  blaze  athwart  your  heads 

Crown  all  the  hills  with  gold.     Your  race  is  past  : 

The  mystic  cycle,  whose  unnoted  birth 

Coeval  was  with  yours,  has  run  its  sands, 

And  other  footsteps  from  these  changing  shores 

Frighten  its  haunting  Spirit.     Men  will  come 

To  vex  your  quiet  with  the  din  of  toil ; 

The  smoky  volumes  of  the  forge  will  stain 

This  pure,  sweet  air  ;  loud  keels  will  ride  the  sea, 

Dashing  its  glittering  sapphire  into  foam ; 

Through  all  her  green  canadas  Spring  will  seek 

Her  lavish  blooms  in  vain,  and  clasping  ye, 

O  mournful  Pines,  within  her  glowing  arms, 

Will  weep  soft  rains  to  find  ye  fallen  low. 

Fall,  therefore,  yielding  to  the  fiat!     Fall, 

Ere  the  maturing  soil,  whose  first  dull  life 

Fed  your  belated  germs,  be  rent  and  seamed  ! 

Fall,  like  the  chiefs  ye  sheltered,  stern,  unbent, 

Your  gray  beards  hiding  memorable  scars  ! 

The  winds  will  mourn  ye,  and  the  barren  hills 

Whose  breast  ye  clothed  ;  and  when  the  pauses  come 

Between  the  crashing  cataracts  of  the  surf, 

A  funeral  silence,  terrible,  profound, 

Will  make  sad  answer  to  the  listening  sea. 


147 


EL  CANELO. 


Now  saddle  EL  CANELO  !  —  the  freshening  wind  of 

morn, 
Down  in    the    flowery  vega,  is   stirring    through    the 

corn ; 
The  thin  smoke  of  the  ranches  grows  red  with  coming 

day, 
And  the  steed  is    fiercely  stamping,  in   haste   to   be 

away. 


II. 


My    glossy-limbed   Canelo,    thy    neck    is    curved    in 

pride, 
Thy  slender  ears  pricked  forward,  thy  nostril  straining 

wide  ; 


148 


And  as  thy  quick  neigh  greets  me,  and  I  catch  thee  by 

the  mane, 
I'm  off  with  the  winds  of  morning  —  the  chieftain  of 

the  plain ! 


in. 


I    feel    the    swift    air    whirring,   and    see    along   our 

track, 
From  the  flinty-paved  sierra,  the  sparks  go  streaming 

back  ; 
And  I  clutch  my  rifle  closer,  as  we  sweep  the  dark 

defile, 
Where  the  red  guerillas  ambush  for  many  a  lonely 

mile. 


IV. 


They  reach  not  El  Canelo ;  with  the  swiftness  of  a 

dream 
We've  passed  the  bleak  Nevada,  and  San  Fernando's 

stream ; 
But  where,  on  sweeping  gallop,  my  bullet  backward 

sped, 
The  keen-eyed  mountain  vultures  will  wheel  above  the 

dead. 


149 


v. 

On  !  on,  my  brave  Canelo  !  we've  dashed  the  sand  and 
snow 

From  peaks  upholding  heaven,  from  deserts  far  be 
low — 

We've  thundered  through  the  forest,  while  the  crackling 
branches  rang, 

And  trooping  elks,  affrighted,  from  lair  and  covert 
sprang. 


VI. 


We've  swum  the  swollen  torrent  —  we've  distanced  in 
the  race 

The  baying  wolves  of  Pinos,  that  panted  with  the 
chase ; 

And  still  thy  mane  streams  backward,  at  every  thrilling 
bound, 

And  still  thy  measured  hoof-stroke  beats  with  its  morn 
ing  sound  ! 

VII. 

The  seaward  winds  are  wailing  through  Santa  Barba 
ra's  pines, 
And  like  a  sheathless  sabre,  the  far  Pacific  shines  ; 


150 


Hold  to  thy  speed,  my  arrow !  at  nightfall  thou  shalt 

lave 
Thy  hot   and    smoking  haunches   beneath   his   silver 

wave ! 


VIII. 


My    head    upon    thy    shoulder,    along    the    sloping 

sand 
We'll  sleep  as  trusty  brothers,  from  out  the  mountain 

land  ; 
The  pines  will  sound  in  answer  to  the  surges  on  the 

shore, 
And  in  our  dreams,  Canelo,  we'll  make  the  journey 

o'er. 


151 


THE   EAGLE   HUNTER. 

STORM  and  rain  are  on  the  mountains, 
And  the  falling  torrents  thunder, 
And  the  black  and  driving  shadows 

Make  a  night  along  the  plain  : 
Now  the  herds  are  grouped  for  shelter, 
And  the  herdsmen  wind  their  lassos, 
Towards  the  distant  hacienda 

Speeding  homeward  through  the  rain. 

From  the  icy  Cordilleras 
Crashing  leap  the  avalanches, 
By  the  hands  of  mining  waters 

Loosened  from  their  lofty  hold  ; 
And  the  mountain  sheep  are  scattered 
By  the  firs  and  larches  falling, 
And  the  wild  wolves  howling  gather 

In  the  caverns  dark  and  cold. 


152 

On  the  lofty  summit,  beaten 
By  the  wintry  sleet,  I  wander, 
For  I  seek  the  monarch  eagle 

In  his  eyrie  of  the  rock  ; 
And  I  shout  in  exultation, 
When  his  gray  wing  on  the  darkness 
Of  the  cloud  above  me  flashes, 

Wheeling  downward  to  the  shock ! 

From  his  wing  I  rob  the  plumage, 
And  it  crowns  me  like  a  chieftain  ; 
At  my  belt  his  talons  rattle, 

Like  the  scales  of  olden  mail : 
Never  win  the  Yuma  hunters 
Such  a  trophy  on  their  deserts, 
Or  the  fiery-eyed  Apache 

In  the  Colorado's  vale  ! 

I  pursue  a  nobler  quarry, 

And  my  home  is  far  above  them, 

Where  the  cradles  of  the  rivers 

Have  been  hollowed  in  the  snow. 
And  I  drink  their  crystal  sources, 
Where  the  Bravo  and  the  Gila 
To  their  thousand  miles  of  travel 

Plunging  down  the  canons  go  ! 


153 

In  the  meeting  of  the  thunders, 
When  the  solid  crags  are  shivered, 
Firm  and  fearless  and  rejoicing 

On  the  lonely  peaks  I  stand  ; 
For  my  foot  has  learned  the  fleetness 
Of  the  ibex  on  the  ridges, 
And  my  voice  the  stormy  music 

Of  the  mighty  Mountain  Land, 


154 


4 


THE   SUMMER  CAMP. 

HERE  slacken  rein  ;  here  let  the  dusty  mules 
Unsaddled  graze  !     The  shadows  of  the  oaks 
Are  on  our  brows,  and  through  their  knotted  boles 
We  see  the  blue  round  of  the  boundless  plain 
Vanish  in  glimmering  heat :  these  aged  oaks, 
The  island  speck  that  beckoned  us  afar 
Over  the  burning  level,  —  as  we  came, 
Spreading  to  shore  and  cape,  and  bays  that  ran 
To  leafy  headlands,  balanced  on  the  haze, 
Faint  and  receding  as  a  cloud  in  air. 

The  mules  may  roam  unsaddled  :  we  will  He 
Beneath  the  mighty  trees,  whose  shade,  like  dew 
Poured  from  the  urns  of  Twilight,  dries  the  sweat 
Of  sunburnt  brows,  and  on  the  heavy  lid 
And  heated  eyeball  sheds  a  balm,  than  sleep 


155 


Far  sweeter.     We  have  done  with  travel, —  we 

Are  weary  now,  who  never  dreamed  of  Rest, 

For  until  now  did  never  Rest  unbar 

Her  palace-doors,  nor  until  now  our  ears 

The  silence  drink,  beyond  all  melodies 

Of  all  imagined  sound,  that  wraps  her  realm. 

Here,  where  the  desolating  centuries 

Have  left  no  mark  ;  where  noises  never  came 

From  the  far  world  of  battle  and  of  toil ; 

Where  God  looks  down  and  sends  no  thunderbolt 

To  smite  a  human  wrong,  for  all  is  good, 

She  finds  a  refuge.     We  will  dwell  with  her. 
I 

No  more  of  travel,  where  the  flaming  sword 
Of  the  great  sun  divides  the  heavens  ;  no  more 
Of  climbing  over  jutty  steeps  that  swim 
In  driving  sea-mist,  where  the  stunted  tree 
Slants  inland,  mimicking  the  stress  of  winds 
When  wind  is  none  ;  of  plain  and  steaming  marsh 
Where  the  dry  bulrush  crackles  in  the  heat  ; 
Of  camps  by  starlight  in  the  columned  vault 
Of  sycamores,  and  the  red,  dancing  fires 
That  build  a  leafy  arch,  efface  and  build, 
And  sink  at  last,  to  let  the  stars  peep  through  ; 
Of  canons  grown  with  pine  and  folded  deep 
In  golden  mountain-sides  ;  of  airy  sweeps 


156 


Of  mighty  landscape,  lying  all  alone 
Like  some  deserted  world.     They  tempt  no  more. 
It  is  enough  that  such  things  were  :  too  blest, 
O  comrades  mine,  to  lie  in  Summer's  arms, 
Lodged  in  her  Camp  of  Rest,  we  will  not  dream 
That  they  may  vex  us  more. 

The  sun  goes  down  : 
The  dun  mules  wander  idly  :   motionless 
Beneath  the  stars,  the  heavy  foliage  lifts 
Its  rich,  round  masses,  silent  as  a  cloud 
That  sleeps  at  midday  on  a  mountain  peak. 
All  through  the  long,  delicious  night  no  stir 
Is  in  the  leaves  ;  spangled  with  broken  gleams, 
Before  the  pining  Moon  —  that  fain  would  drop 
Into  the  lap  of  this  deep  quiet  —  swerve 
Eastward  the  shadows  :  Day  comes  on  again. 
Where  is  the  life  we  led  ?     Whither  hath  fled 
The  turbulent  stream  that  brought  us  hither?     How. 
So  full  of  sound,  so  lately  dancing  down 
The  mountains,  turbid,  fretted  into  foam,  — 
How  has  it  slipped,  with  scarce  a  gurgling  coil, 
Into  this  calm  transparence,  noise  or  wind 
Hath  ruffled  never  ?     Ages  past,  perchance, 
Such  wild  turmoil  was  ours,  or  did  some  Dream 
Malign,  that  last  night  nestled  in  the  oak, 


157 


Whisper  our  ears,  when  not  a  star  could  see  ? 
Give  o'er  the  fruitless  doubt :  we  will  not  waste 
One  thought  of  rest,  nor  spill  one  radiant  drop 
From  the  full  goblet  of  this  summer  balm. 

Day  after  day  the  mellow  sun  slides  o'er, 
Night  after  night  the  mellow  moon.     The  clouds 
Are  laid,  enchanted  :   soft  and  bare,  the  heavens 
Fold  to  their  breast  the  dozing  Earth,  that  lies 
In  languor  of  deep  bliss.     At  times,  a  breath, 
Remnant  of  gales  far  off,  forgotten  now, 
Rustles  the  never-fading  leaves,  then  drops 
Affrighted  into  silence.     Near  a  slough 
Of  dark,  still  water,  in  the  early  morn 
The  shy  coyotas  prowl,  or  trooping  elk 
From  the  close  covert  of  the  bulrush-fields 
Their  dewy  antlers  toss  :  nor  other  sight, 
Save  when  the  falcon,  poised  on  wheeling  wings, 
His  bright  eye  on  the  burrowing  coney,  cuts 
His  arrowy  plunge.     Along  the  distant  trail, 
Dim  with  the  heat,  sometimes  the  miners  go 
Bearded  and  rough,  the  swart  Sonorians  drive 
Their  laden  asses,  or  vaqueros  whirl 
The  lasso's  coil  and  carol  many  a  song, 
Native  to  Spanish  hills.     As  when  we  lie 
On  the  soft  brink  of  Sleep,  not  pillowed  quite 


158 


To  blest  forgetfulness,  some  dim  array 
Of  masking  forms  in  long  procession  comes, 
A  sweet  disturbance  to  the  poppied  sense, 
That  will  not  cease,  but  gently  holds  it  back 
From  slumber's  haven,  so  their  figures  pass, 
With  such  disturbance  cloud  the  blessed  calm, 
And  hold  our  beings,  ready  to  slip  forth 
O'er  unmolested  seas,  still  rocking  near 
The  coasts  of  Action. 

Other  dreams  are  ours, 

Of  shocks  that  were,  or  seemed  ;  whereof  our  souls 
Feel  the  subsiding  lapse,  as  feels  the  sand 
Of  tropic  island-shores  the  dying  pulse 
Of  storms  that  racked  the  Northern  sea.     My  Soul, 
I  do  believe  that  thou  hast  toiled  and  striven, 
And  hoped  and  suffered  wrong.     I  do  believe 
Great  aims  were  thine,  deep  loves  and  fiery  hates, 
And  though  I  may  have  lain  a  thousand  years 
Beneath  these  Oaks,  the  baffled  trust  of  Youth, 
Thy  first  keen  sorrow,  brings  a  gentle  pang 
To  temper  joy.     Nor  will  the  joy  I  drank 
To  wild  intoxication,  quit  my  heart : 
It  was  no  dream  that  still  has  power  to  droop 
The  soft-suffusing  lid,  and  lift  desire 
Beyond  this  rapt  repose.     No  dream,  dear  love  ! 
For  thou  art  with  me  in  our  Camp  of  Peace. 


159 


O  Friend,  whose  history  is  writ  in  deeds 
That  make  your  life  a  marvel,  corne  no  gleams 
Of  past  adventure,  echoes  of  old  storms, 
And  Battle's  tingling  hum  of  flying  shot, 
To  touch  your  easy  blood  and  tempt  you  o'er 
The  round  of  yon  blue  plain  ?     Or  have  they  lost, 
Heroic  days,  the  virtue  which  the  heart 
That  did  their  best  rejoicing,  proved  so  high  ? 
Back  through  the  long,  long  cycles  of  our  rest 
Your  memory  travels  :  through  this  hush  you  hear 
The  Gila's  dashing,  feel  the  yawning  jaws 
Of  black  volcanic  gorges  close  you  in 
On  waste  and  awful  tracts  of  wilderness, 
Which  other  than  the  eagle's  cry,  or  bleat 
Of  mountain-goat,  hear  not :  the  scorching  sand 
Eddies  around  the  tracks  your  fainting  mules 
Leave  in  the  desert :  thorn  and  cactus  pierce 
Your  bleeding  limbs,  and  stiff  with  raging  thirst 
Your  tongue  forgets  its  office.     Leave  untried 
That  cruel  trail,  and  leave  the  wintiy  hills 
And  leave  the  tossing  sea  !     The  Summer  here 
Builds  us  a  tent  of  everlasting  calm. 

How  shall  we  wholly  sink  our  lives  in  thee, 
Thrice-blessed  Deep  ?     O  many-natured  Soul, 
Chameleon-like,  that,  steeped  in  every  phase 


160 


Of  wide  existence,  tak'st  the  hue  of  each, 
Here  with  the  silent  Oaks  and  azure  Air 
Incorporate  grow !     Here  loosen  one  by  one 
Thy  vexing  memories,  burdens  of  the  Past, 
Till  all  unrest  be  laid,  and  strong  Desire 
Sleeps  on  his  nerveless  arm.     Content  to  find 
In  liberal  Peace  thy  being's  high  result 
And  crown  of  aspiration,  gather  all 
The  dreams  of  sense,  the  Teachings  of  the  mind 
For  ampler  issues  and  dominion  vain, 
To  fold  them  on  her  bosom,  happier  there 
Than  in  exultant  action  :   as  a  child 
Forgets  his  meadow  butterflies  and  flowers, 
Upon  his  mother's  breast. 

It  may  not  be. 

Not  in  this  Camp,  in  these  enchanted  Trees, 
But  in  ourselves,  must  lodge  the  calm  we  seek, 
Ere  we  can  fix  it  here.     We  cannot  take 
From  outward  nature  power  to  snap  the  curse 
Which  clothed  our  birth ;  and  though  'twere  easier 
This  hour  to  die  than  yield  the  blessed  cup 
Wherefrom  our  hearts  divinest  comfort  draw, 
It  clothes  us  yet,  and  yet  shall  drive  us  forth 
To  breast  the  world.    Then  come  :  we  will  not  bide 
To  tempt  a  ruin  to  this  paradise, 


161 


Ful filling  Destiny.     A  mighty  wind 
Would  gather  on  the  plain,  a  cloud  arise 
To  blot  the  sky,  with  thunder  in  its  heart, 
And  the  black  column  of  the  whirlwind  spin 
Out  of  the  cloud,  straight  downward  to  this  grove, 
Take  by  their  heads  the  shuddering  trees,  and  wrench 
With  fearful  clamor,  limb  from  limb,  till  Rest 
Should  flee  forever.     Rather  set  at  once 
Our  faces  toward  the  noisy  world  again, 
And  gird  our  loins  for  action.     Let  us  go  ! 
11 


162 


THE   BISON  TRACK. 


STRIKE  the  tent !  the  sun  has  risen ;  not  a  vapor  streaks 

the  dawn, 
And  the  frosted  prairie  brightens  to  the  westward,  far 

and  wan  : 
Prime  afresh  the  trusty  rifle  —  sharpen  well  the  hunting 

spear  — 
For  the  frozen  sod  is  trembling,  and  a  noise  of  hoofs  I 

hear! 


n. 


Fiercely  stamp  the  tethered  horses,  as  they  snuff  the 

morning's  fire  ; 
Their  impatient  heads  are  tossing,  and  they  neigh  with 

keen  desire. 


163 


Strike  the  tent !  the  saddles  wait  us  —  let  the  bridle- 
reins  be  slack, 

For  the  prairie's  distant  thunder  has  betrayed  the  bi 
son's  track. 


in. 


See  !  a  dusky  line  approaches  :  hark,  the  omvard*-sur- 

ging  roar, 
Like  the  din  of  wintry  breakers  on  a  sounding  wall  of 

shore  ! 
Dust  and  sand  behind  them  whirling,  snort  the  foremost 

of  the  van, 
And  their  stubborn   horns   are  clashing  through   the 

crowded  caravan. 


IV. 


Now  the   storm  is  down  upon  us  :   let  the  maddened 

horses  go  ! 
We  shall  ride  the  living  whirlwind,  though  a  hundred 

leagues  it  blow  ! 
Though  the  cloudy  manes  should  thicken,  and  the  red 

eyes'  angry  glare 
Lighten  round  us  as  we  gallop  through  the  sand  and 

rushing  air ! 


164 


v. 


Myriad  hoofs  will  scar  the  prairie,  in  our  wild,  resist 
less  race, 

And  a  sound,  like  mighty  waters,  thunder  down  the 
desert  space  : 

Yet  the  rein  may  not  be  tightened,  nor  the  rider's  eye 
look  back  — 

Death  to  him  whose  speed  should  slacken,  on  the  mad 
dened  bison's  track! 


VI. 


Now  the  trampling  herds  are  threaded,  and  the  chase 

is  close  and  warm 

For  the  giant  bull  that  gallops  in  the  edges  of  the  storm  : 
Swiftly  hurl  the  whizzing  lasso  —  swing  your  rifles  as 

we  run : 
See  !  the  dust  is  red  behind  him  —  shout,  my  comrades, 

he  is  won  ! 


VII. 


Look  not  on  him  as  he  staggers  —  'tis  the  last  shot  he 

will  need  ! 
More  shall  fall,  among  his  fellows,  ere  we  run  the  mad 

stampede  — 


165 


Ere  we  stem  the  brinded  breakers,  while  the  wolves,  a 

hungry  pack, 
Howl  around  each  grim-eyed  carcass,  on  the  bloody 

Bison  Track  ! 


RHYMES  OF  TRAVEL,  AND  EARLY  POEMS. 


067) 


169 


THE   TOMB   OF   CHARLEMAGNE. 

I  STOOD  in  that  cathedral  old,  the  work  of  kingly 
power, 

That  from  the  clustered  roofs  of  Aix  lifts  up  its  mould 
ering  tower, 

And,  like  a  legend  strange  and  rude,  speaks  of  an  ear 
lier  day  — 

Of  saint  and  knight,  the  tourney's  pomp  and  the  Min 
nesinger's  lay ! 

Above  me  rose  the  pillared  dome,  with  many  a  statue 
grim, 

And  through  the  chancel-oriel  came  a  splendor  soft 
and  dim, 

Till  dusky  shrine  and  painting  old  glowed  in  the  lustre 
wan : 

Below  me  was  a  marble  slab  —  the  Tomb  of  Charle 
magne. 


170 


A    burst    of   organ-music    rang    so    grandly,    sadly 

slow, 
It  seemed  a  requiem  thundered  o'er  the  dead  who  slept 

below  ; 
And  with  the  sound  came  thronging  round  the   stern 

men  of  that  time, 
When  best  was  he  who  bravest  fought,  and  cowardice 

was  crime. 

I  thought  upon  the  day  when  he,  whose  dust  I  stood 

upon, 
Ruled  with  a  monarch's  boundless  right  the  kingdoms 

he  had  won  — 
When  rose  the  broad  Alps  in  his  realm,  and  roared  the 

Baltic's  wave  ; 
And  now  —  the  lowest  serf  might  stand,  unheeded,  on 

his  grave. 

And  ruthless  hands  despoiled  his  dust,  attired  in  regal 

pride, 
The  crown  upon  his  crumbled  brows,  and  Joycusc  by 

his  side  — 
Whose  rusted  blade,  at  Roi^eval,  flamed  in  the  hero's 

hand 
In  answer  to  the  silver  horn  of  the  Paladin,  Roland. 


171 


I  stood  on  that  neglected  stone,  thrilled  with  the  glori 
ous  sound, 

While  bowed  at  many  a  holier  shrine  the  worshippers 
around  — 

And  through  the  cloud  of  incense-smoke  burned  many 
a  taper  dim, 

And  priestly  stoles  went  sweeping  by  —  I  could  but 
think  of  him  ! 

I  saw  the  boy  with  yellow  locks,  crowned  at  St.  Deny's 

shrine ; 
The  emperor  in  his  purple  cloak,  the  lord  of  all  the 

Rhine ; 
The  conqueror  of  a  thousand  foes,  in  battle  stern  and 

hard  ; 
The  widowed  mourner  at  thy  tomb,  O  fairest  Hilde- 

garde  ! 

Long  pealed  the  music  of  the  choir  through  chancel- 
arch  and  nave, 

As,  lost  in  those  old  memories,  I  stood  upon  his  grave ; 

And  when  the  morning  anthem  ceased,  and  solemn 
mass  began, 

I  left  that  minster  gray  and  old  —  the  Tomb  of  Charle 
magne. 
AIX-LA-CHAPELLE,  1844. 


172 


THE  WAYSIDE   DREAM. 

THE  deep  and  lordly  Danube 

Goes  winding  far  below  ; 
I  see  the  white-walled  hamlets 

Amid  his  vineyards  glow, 
And  southward,  through  the  ether,  shine 

The  Styrian  hills  of  snow. 

O'er  many  a  league  of  landscape 
Sleeps  the  warm  haze  of  noon  ; 

The  wooing  winds  come  freighted 
With  messages  of  June, 

And  down  among  the  corn  and  flowers 
I  hear  the  water's  tune. 

The  meadow-lark  is  singing, 
As  if  it  still  were  morn  ; 


173 

Within  the  dark  pine-forest 

The  hunter  winds  his  horn, 
And  the  cuckoo's  shy,  complaining  note 

Mocks  the  maidens  in  the  corn. 

I  watch  the  cloud-armada 

Go  sailing  up  the  sky, 
Lulled  by  the  murmuring  mountain  grass 

Upon  whose  bed  I  lie, 
And  the  faint  sound  of  noonday  chimes 

That  in  the  distance  die. 

A  warm  and  drowsy  sweetness 

Is  stealing  o'er  my  brain  ; 
I  see  no  more  the  Danube 

Sweep  through  his  royal  plain  ; 
I  hear  no  more  the  peasant  girls 

Singing  amid  the  grain. 

Soft,  silvery  wings,  a  moment 
Have  swept  across  my  brow  : 

Again  I  hear  the  water, 

But  its  voice  is  sweeter  now, 

And  the  mocking-bird  and  oriole 
Are  singing  on  the  bough ! 


174 

The  elm  and  linden  branches 
Droop  close  and  dark  o'erhead, 

And  the  foaming  forest  brooklet 
Leaps  down  its  rocky  bed  : 

Be  still,  my  heart !  the  seas  are  passed 
The  paths  of  home  I  tread ! 

The  showers  of  creamy  blossoms 

Are  on  the  linden  spray, 
And  down  the  clover  meadow 

They  heap  the  scented  hay, 
And  glad  winds  toss  the  forest  leaves, 

All  the  bright  summer  day. 

Old  playmates  !  bid  me  welcome 

Amid  your  brother-band  ; 
Give  me  the  old  affection  — 

The  glowing  grasp  of  hand  ! 
I  seek  no  more  the  realms  of  old  — 

Here  is  my  Fatherland. 

Come  hither,  gentle  maiden, 
Who  weep'st  in  tender  joy  ! 

The  rapture  of  thy  presence 
Repays  the  world's  annoy, 


175 


And  calms  the  wild  and  ardent  heart 
Which  warms  the  wandering  boy. 

In  many  a  mountain  fastness, 

By  many  a  river's  foam, 
And  through  the  gorgeous  cities, 

'Twas  loneliness  to  roam  ; 
For  the  sweetest  music  in  my  heart 

Was  the  olden  songs  of  home. 

Ah,  glen  and  grove  are  vanished, 

And  friends  have  faded  now  ! 
The  balmy  Styrian  breezes 

Are  blowing  on  my  brow, 
And  sounds  again  the  cuckoo's  call 

From  the  forest's  inmost  bough. 

Fled  is  that  happy  vision  — 

The  gates  of  slumber  fold  ; 
I  rise  and  journey  onward 

Through  valleys  green  and  old, 
Where  the  far,  white  Alps  announce  the  morn, 

And  keep  the  sunset's  gold. 
UPPER  AUSTRIA,  1S45. 


176 


STEYERMARK. 

IN  Steyermark  —  green  Steyermark, 
The  fields  are  bright  and  the  forests  dark  — 
Bright  with  the  maids  that  bind  the  sheaves, 
Dark  with  the  arches  of  whispering  leaves  ! 
Voices  and  streams  and  sweet  bells  chime 
Over  the  land,  in  the  harvest-time, 
And  the  blithest  songs  of  the  finch  and  lark 
Are  heard  in  the  orchards  of  Steyermark. 

In  Steyermark  —  old  Steyermark, 

The  mountain  summits  are  white  and  stark ; 

The  rough  winds  furrow  their  trackless  snow, 

But  the  mirrors  of  crystal  are  smooth  below ; 

The  stormy  Danube  clasps  the  wave 

That  downward  sweeps  with  the  Dravc  and  Save, 

And  the  Euxinc  is  whitened  with  many  a  bark, 

Freighted  with  ores  of  Steyermark  ! 


177 


In  Steyermark  —  rough  Steyermark, 
The  anvils  ring  from  dawn  till  dark  ; 
The  molten  streams  of  the  furnace  glare, 
Blurring  with  crimson  the  midnight  air  ; 
The  lusty  voices  of  forgemen  chord, 
Chanting  the  ballad  of  Siegfried's  Sword, 
While  the  hammers  swung  by  their  arms  so  stark 
Strike  to  the  music  of  Steyermark  ! 

In  Steyermark  —  dear  Steyermark, 
Each  heart  is  light  as  the  morning  lark  : 
There  men  are  framed  in  the  manly  mould 
Of  their  stalwart  sires,  of  the  times  of  old, 
And  the  sunny  blue  of  the  Styrian  sky 
Grows  soft  in  the  timid  maiden's  eye, 
When  love  descends  with  the  twilight  dark, 
In  the  beechen  groves  of  Steyermark. 
12 


178 


TO  A  BAVARIAN  GIRL. 

THOU,  Bavaria's  brown-eyed  daughter, 

Art  a  shape  of  joy, 
Standing  by  the  Isar's  water 

With  thy  brother-boy ; 
In  thy  dream,  with  idle  fingers 

Threading  through  his  curls, 
On  thy  cheek  the  sun's  kiss  lingers, 

Rosiest  of  girls ! 

Woods  of  glossy  oak  are  ringing 

With  the  echoes  bland, 
While  thy  generous  voice  is  singing 

Songs  of  Fatherland  — 
Songs,  that  by  the  Danube's  river 

Sound  on  hills  of  vine, 
And  where  waves  in  green  light  quiver, 

Down  the  rushing  Rhine. 


179 

Life,  with  all  its  hues  and  changes, 

To  thy  heart  doth  lie 
Like  those  dreamy  Alpine  ranges 

In  the  southern  sky ; 
Where  in  haze  the  clefts  are  hidden, 

Which  the  foot  should  fear, 
And  the  crags  that  fall  unbidden 

Startle  not  the  ear. 

Where  the  village  maidens  gather 

At  the  fountain's  brim, 
Or  in  sunny  harvest-weather, 

With  the  reapers  trim  ; 
Where  the  autumn  fires  are  burning 

On  the  vintage-hills ; 
Where  the  mossy  wheels  are  turning 

In  the  ancient  mills  ; 

Where  from  ruined  robber-towers 

Hangs  the  ivy's  hair, 
And  the  crimson  foxbell  flowers 

On  the  crumbling  stair  :  — 
Every  where,  without  thy  presence, 

Would  the  sunshine  fail, 
Fairest  of  the  maiden  peasants  ! 

Flower  of  Isar's  vale  ! 
MUNICH,  1845. 


180 


IN  ITALY. 

DEAR  Lillian,  all  I  wished  is  won  ! 
I  sit  beneath  Italia's  sun, 
Where  olive  orchards  gleam  and  quiver 
Along  the  banks  of  Arno's  river. 

Through  laurel  leaves,  the  dim  green  light 
Falls  on  my  forehead  as  I  write, 
And  the  sweet  chimes  of  vesper,  ringing, 
Blend  with  the  contadina's  singing. 

Rich  is  the  soil  with  Fancy's  gold  ; 
The  stirring  memories  of  old 
Rise  thronging  in  my  haunted  vision, 
And  wake  my  spirit's  young  ambition. 


181 

But  as  the  radiant  sunsets  close 
Above  Val  d'Arno's  bowers  of  rose, 
My  soul. forgets  the  olden  glory, 
And  deems  our  love  a  dearer  story. 

Thy  words,  in  Memory's  ear,  outchime 
The  music  of  the  Tuscan  rhyme  ; 
Thou  standest  here  —  the  gentle-hearted  — 
Amid  the  shades  of  bards  departed. 

I  see  before  thee  fade  away 

Their  garlands  of  immortal  bay, 

And  turn  from  Petrarch's  passion-glances 

To  my  own  dearer  heart-romances. 

Sad  is  the  opal  glow  that  fires 
The  midnight  of  the  cypress  spires, 
And  cold  the  scented  wind  that  closes 
The  heart  of  bright  Etruscan  roses. 

A  single  thought  of  thee  effaced 
The  fair  Italian  dream  I  chased  ; 
For  the  true  clime  of  song  and  sun 
Lies  in  the  heart  which  mine  hath  won ! 
FLORENCE,  1845. 


182 


THE   STATUE   IN  THE   SNOW. 

NUMB  and  chill  the  Savoyard  wandered 
By  the  banks  of  frozen  Seine, 

Oft,  to  cheer  his  sinking  spirit, 
Singing  low  some  mountain  strain. 

But,  beside  the  wintry  river, 
Rose  the  songs  of  green  Savoy 

Sadder  than  on  Alpine  summits, 
Sung  by  many  a  shepherd-boy. 

From  the  bleak  and  distant  Jura 
Swept  the  snowy  whirlwind  down, 

Flinging  wide  his  shifting  mantle 
Over  slope  and  meadow  brown. 


183 

Like  a  corpse  the  silent  landscape 
Lay  all  stark  and  icy  there, 

And  a  chill  and  ghostly  terror 
Seemed  to  load  the  leaden  air. 


Still  that  shivering  boy  went  forward, 
Though  his  heart  within  him  died, 

When  the  dreary  night  was  closing 
Dull  around  the  desert  wide. 


Through  the  desolate  northern  twilight, 
To  his  homesick  pining,  rose 

Visions  of  the  flashing  glaciers, 
Lifted  in  sublime  repose. 

Horns  of  Alp-herds  rang  in  welcome, 
And  his  mother  kissed  her  boy  — 

But  away  his  heart  was  hurried 
From  the  vales  of  dear  Savoy ! 

For,  amid  the  sinking  darkness, 
Colder,  chillier,  blew  the  snows, 

Till  but  faint  and  moaning  whispers. 
From  his  stiffening  lips  arose. 


184 

Then,  beside  the  pathway  kneeling, 
Folded  he  his  freezing  hands, 

While  the  blinding  snows  were  drifted 
Like  the  desert's  lifted  sands. 

As  in  many  an  old  cathedral, 

Curtained  round  with  solemn  gloom, 

One  may  see  a  marble  cherub 
Kneeling  on  a  marble  tomb. 

With  his  face  to  Heaven  upturning, 
For  the  dead  he  seems  to  pray, 

While  the  organ  o'er  him  thunders, 
And  the  incense  curls  away. 

Thus  the  Savoyard,  pale  and  lifeless, 

Knelt  in  Night's  cathedral  vast, 
When  the  stars  at  midnight  sparkled 

In  the  pauses  of  the  blast. 
PABIS,  1846. 


185 


THE  DEAREST  IMAGE. 


I'VE  wandered  through  the  golden  lands 
Where  Art  and  Beauty  blended  shine  — 

Where  features  limned  by  painters'  hands 
Beam  from  the  canvas  made  divine, 

And  many  a  god  in  marble  stands, 
With  soul  in  every  breathing  line  ; 

And  forms  the  world  has  treasured  long 

Within  me  touched  the  source  of  Song. 


n. 


Like  madness  o'er  the  spirit  came 
The  boundless  rapture  they  inspired, 

As  with  my  feelings  all  on  flame 

I  worshipped  what  the  world  admired, 


186 

While  flashes  from  those  orbs  of  fame 

The  soul  with  mutual  ardor  fired, 
Till  Beauty's  smile  and  Glory's  star 
Seemed  to  its  grasp  no  more  afar. 


in. 


Yet,  brighter  than  those  radiant  dreams 
Which  won  renown  that  never  dies  — 

Where  more  than  mortal  beauty  beams 
In  sibyls'  lips  and  angels'  eyes  — 

One  image,  like  the  moonlight,  seems, 
Between  them  and  my  heart  to  rise, 

And  in  its  brighter,  dearer  ray, 

The  stars  of  Genius  fade  away. 
LONDON,  1846. 


187 


A  BACCHIC  ODE. 

WINE  —  bring  wine  ! 

Let  the  crystal  beaker  flame  and  shine, 

Brimming  o'er  with  the  draught  divine  ! 

The  crimson  glow 

Of  the  lifted  cup  on  my  forehead  throw, 

Like  the  sunset's  flush  on  a  field  of  snow. 

I  burn  to  lave 

My  thirsty  lip  in  the  ruddy  wave  ; 

Freedom  bringeth  the  wine  so  brave  ! 

The  world  is  cold  : 

Sorrow  and  pain  have  gloomy  hold, 

Chilling  the  bosom  warm  and  bold. 


188 


Doubts  and  fears 

Veil  the  shine  of  my  morning  years  — 
,  My  life's  lone  rainbow  springs  from  tears. 

But  Eden-gleams 

Visit  my  soul  in  immortal  dreams, 

When  the  wave  of  the  goblet  burns  and  beams. 

Not  from  the  Rhine, 

Not  from  fields  of  Burgundian  vine, 

Bring  me  the  bright  Olympian  wine  ! 

Not  with  a  ray 

Born  where  the  winds  of  Shiraz  play, 

Or  the  fiery  blood  of  the  ripe  Tokay. 

Not  where  the  glee 

Of  Falernian  vintage  echoes  free, 

Or  the  Chian  gardens  gem  the 


But  wine  —  bring  wine, 

Royally  flushed  with  its  growth  divine, 

In  the  crystal  depth  of  my  soul  to  shine  ! 


189 


Whose  glow  was  caught 

From  the  warmth  which  Fancy's  summer  brought 

To  the  vintage-fields  in  the  Land  of  Thought. 

Rich  and  free 

To  my  thirsting  soul  will  the  goblet  be, 

Poured  by  the  Hebe,  Poesy. 


190 


A  FUNERAL   THOUGHT. 


WHEN  the  pale  Genius,  to  whose  hollow  tramp 
Echo  the  startled  chambers  of  the  soul, 

Waves  his  inverted  torch  o'er  that  pale  camp 
Where  the  archangel's  final  trumpets  roll, 

I  would  not  meet  him  in  the  chamber  dim, 
Hushed,  and  pervaded  with  a  nameless  fear, 

When  the  breath  flutters  and  the  senses  swim, 
And  the  dread  hour  is  near. 


II. 


Though  Love's  dear  arms  might  clasp  me  fondly  then, 

As  if  to  keep  the  Summoner  at  bay, 
And  woman's  woe  and  the  calm  grief  of  men 

Hallow  at  last  the  chill,  unbreathing  clay  — 


191 


These  are  Earth's  fetters,  and  the  soul  would  shrink, 

Thus  bound,  from  Darkness  and  the  dread  Unknown, 
Stretching  its  arms  from  Death's  eternal  brink, 
Which  it  must  dare  alone. 


in. 


But  in  the  awful  silence  of  the  sky, 

Upon  some  mountain  summit,  yet  untrod, 

Through  the  blue  ether  would  I  climb,  to  die 
Afar  from  mortals  and  alone  with  God  ! 

To  the  pure  keeping  of  the  stainless  air 

Would  I  resign  my  faint  and  fluttering  breath, 

And  with  the  rapture  of  an  answered  prayer 
Receive  the  kiss  of  Death. 


IV. 


Then  to  the  elements  my  frame  would  turn  ; 

No  worms  should  riot  on  my  coffined  clay, 
But  the  cold  limbs,  from  that  sepulchral  urn, 

In  the  slow  storms  of  ages  waste  away. 


192 


Loud  winds  and  thunder's  diapason  high 

Should  be  my  requiem  through  the  coming  time, 
And  the  white  summit,  fading  in  the  sky, 
My  monument  sublime. 


193 


THE   ANGEL  OF  THE   SOUL. 

Una  stella,  una  notte,  ed  una  croce.  —  BISAZZA. 

SILENCE  hath  conquered  thee,  imperial  Night ! 
Thou  sitt'st  alone  within  her  void,  cold  halls, 
Thy  solemn  brow  uplifted,  and  thy  soul 
Paining  the  space  with  dumb  and  yearning  thought. 
The  dreary  winds  are  eddying  round  thy  formr 
Following  the  stealthy  hours,  that  wake  no  stir 
In  the  hushed  velvet  of  thy  mantle's  fold. 
Thy  thoughts  take  being  :  down  the  dusky  aisles 
Glide  shapes  of  good,  enticing  ghosts  of  guilt, 
And  dreams  of  maddening  beauty  —  hopes,  that  shine 
To  darken,  and  in  cloudy  height  sublime, 
The  spectral  march  of  some  approaching  doom. 
Nor  these  alone,  O  Mother  of  the  world  I 
People  thy  chambers,  echoless  and  vasl : 
13 


194 


Their  dewy  freshness  like  ambrosia  cools 

Life's  fever-thirst,  and  to  the  fainting  soul 

Their  porphyry  walls  are  touched  with  light,  and  gleams 

Of  shining  wonder  dance  along  the  void, 

Like  those  processions  which  the  traveller's  torch 

Wakes  from  the  darkness  of  three  thousand  years, 

In  rock-hewn  sepulchres  of  Theban  kings. 

Prophets,  whose  brows  of  pale,  unearthly  glow 

Reflect  the  twilight  of  celestial  dawns, 

And  bards,  transfigured  in  immortal  song, 

Like  eager  children,  kneeling  at  thy  feet, 

Unclasp  the  awful  volume  of  thy  lore. 

My  soul  explores  thy  far,  mysterious  realms, 

Beyond  this  being's  circumscribed  domain, 

Touches  the  threshold  of  supremer  life, 

And  calls  through  all  the  spangled  deeps  of  heaven 

Its  guardian  angel,  as  an  orphan  calls 

His  only  brother,  that  in  childhood  died  : 

Thy  wings  waved  white  across  my  cradled  dreams, 

Lost  Angel  of  the  Soul !     Thy  presence  led 

The  babe's  faint  gropings  through  the  glimmering  dark 

And  into  Being's  conscious  dawn.     Thy  hand 

Held  mine  in  childhood,  and  thy  cherub's  cheek 

vCaressed,  like  some  familiar  playmate's,  mine. 


195 


Up  to  that  boundary,  whence  the  heart  leaps  forth 
To  life,  like  some  young  torrent,  when  the  rains 
Pour  dark  and  full  upon  the  cloudy  hills, 
Thy  shining  steps  kept  even  pace  with  mine. 
Be  with  me  now !     O,  in  the  starry  hush 
Of  holy  night,  restore  to  me  again 
The  innocence  whose  loss  was  loss  of  thee ! 
Through  the  warm  gush  of  unexpected  tears 
Let  me  behold  thine  eyes  divine,  as  stars 
Swim  through  the  twilight  vapors  of  the  sea  ! 

Not  yet  hast  thou  forsaken  me.     The  prayer 

Whose  crowning  fervor  lifts  my  nature  up 

Midway  to  God,  may  still  evoke  thy  form. 

Thou  hast  returned,  what  time  the  midnight  dew 

Clung  damp  upon  my  brow,  and  the  broad  fields 

Stretched  far  and  dim  beneath  the  ghostly  moon  ; 

When  the  dark,  awful  woods  were  silent  near, 

And  with  imploring  hands  towards  the  stars 

Clasped  in  mute  yearning,  I  have  questioned  Heaven 

For  the  lost  language  of  the  book  of  Life. 

In  the  last  undulating,  dying  strains 

Of  tender  music,  I  have  heard  thy  voice  ; 

And  thou  hast  cried  amid  the  stormy  rush 

Of  grand  orchestral  triumph,  calling  me 

Till  every  chord  became  a  pang,  and  calling  still 


196 

Till  I  could  bear  no  more.     I  feel  tlie  light, 
Which  is  thine  atmosphere,  around  my  soul, 
When  a  great  sorrow  gulfs  it  from  the  world. 

Come  back  !  come  back  !  my  heart  grows  faint,  to  know 

How  thy  withdrawing  radiance  leaves  more  dim 

The  twilight  borders  of  the  night  of  Earth. 

Now,  when  the  bitter  truth  is  learned  ;  when  all 

That  seemed  so  high  and  good,  but  mocks  its  seeming  ; 

When  the  warm  dreams  of  youth  come  shivering  back, 

In  the  cold  chambers  of  the  heart  to  die ; 

When,  with  the  wrestling  years,  familiar  grows 

The  merciless  hand  of  Pain,  desert  me  not ! 

Come  with  the  true  heart  of  the  faithful  Night,     • 

When  I  have  thrown  aside  the  masking  garb 

Of  the  deceitful  Day,  and  lie  at  rest 

On  her  consoling  bosom  !     From  the  founts 

Of  thine  exhaustless  light,  make  clear  the  road 

Through  toil  and  darkness,  into  God's  repose  ! 


197 


AN   HOUR. 

I'VE  left  the  keen,  cold  winds  to  blow 

Around  the  summits  bare  ; 
My  sunny  pathway  to  the  sea 

Leads  downward,  green  and  fair, 
Where  leaves  and  blossoms  toss  and  glow 

Amid  the  southern  air. 


The  fern  its  fragrant  plumage  droops 
O'er  mosses  crisp  and  gray, 

Where  on  the  shaded  crags  I  sit, 
Beside  the  cataract's  spray, 

And  watch  the  far-off,  shining  sails 
Go  down  the  gleaming  bay. 


198 

I've  left  the  wintry  winds  of  life 

On  barren  hearts  to  blow  — 
The  anguish  and  the  gnawing  care, 

The  torture  and  the  woe  ! 
I  sail  the  sunny  sea  of  dreams 

Where'er  its  winds  may  blow. 

Away  !  away  !  I  hear  the  horn 

Among  the  hills  of  Spain  : 
The  old,  chivalric  glory  fires 

Her  warrior  hearts  again  : 
Ho  !  how  their  banners  light  the  morn 

Along  Granada's  plain  ! 

I  hear  the  hymns  of  holy  faith 

The  red  Crusaders  sang, 
And  the  silver  horn  of  Ronfeval, 

That  o'er  the  tecbir  rang, 
When  prince  and  kaiser  through  the  fray 

To  the  dying  paladin  sprang. 


A  beam  of  burning  light  I  hold, 
My  good  Damascus  brand, 


199 

And  the  jet-black  charger  that  I  ride 
Was  foaled  in  the  Arab  land, 

And  a  hundred  horsemen,  mailed  in  steel, 
Follow  at  my  command  ! 

Through  royal  cities  goes  our  march  ; 

The  minster-bells  are  rung  ; 
The  trumpets  give  a  lordly  peal, 

The  battle-flags  are  swung, 
And  lips  of  lovely  ladies  praise 

The  chieftain,  brave  and  young. 

And  now,  in  soft  Provencal  bowers, 

A  minstrel-knight  am  I : 
A  gentle  bosom  on  my  own 

Throbs  back  its  ecstasy  ; 
A  cheek,  as  fair  as  the  almond  flowers, 

Thrills  to  my  lip's  reply. 

I  tread  the  fanes  of  wondrous  Rome, 

Crowned  with  immortal  bay, 
And  myriads  crowd  the  Capitol 

To  hear  my  lofty  lay, 
While,  sounding  o'er  the  Tiber's  foam, 

Their  shoutings  peal  away. 


200 

O,  triumph  such  as  this  were  worth 

The  Poet's  doom  of  pain, 
Whose  hours  are  brazen  on  the  earth, 

But  golden  in  the  brain  : 
I  close  the  starry  Gate  of  Dreams, 

And  walk  the  dust  again. 


201 


THE   NORSEMAN'S   RIDE. 

THE  frosty  fires  of  Northern  starlight 

Gleamed  on  the  glittering  snow, 
And  through  the  forest's  frozen  branches 

The  shrieking  winds  did  blow  ; 
A  floor  of  blue,  translucent  marble 

Kept  ocean's  pulses  still, 
When,  in  the  depth  of  dreary  midnight, 

Opened  the  burial  hill. 

Then  while  a  low  and  creeping  shudder 

Thrilled  upward  through  the  ground, 
The  Norseman  came,  as  armed  for  battle, 

In  silence  from  his  mound  : 
He,  who  was  mourned  in  solemn  sorrow 

By  many  a  swordsman  bold, 
And  harps  that  wailed  along  the  ocean, 

Struck  by  the  Skalds  of  old. 


202 

Sudden,  a  swift  and  silver  shadow 

Rushed  up  from  out  the  gloom  — 
A  horse  that  stamped  with  hoof  impatient, 

Yet  noiseless,  on  the  tomb. 
"  Ha,  Surtur  !  let  me  hear  thy  tramping, 

Thou  noblest  Northern  steed, 
Whose  neigh  along  the  stormy  headlands 

Bade  the  bold  Viking  heed  !  " 

He  mounted  :  like  a  north-light  streaking 

The  sky  with  flaming  bars, 
They,  on  the  winds  so  wildly  shrieking, 

Shot  up  before  the  stars. 
"  Is  this  thy  mane,  my  fearless  Surtur, 

That  streams  against  my  breast  ? 
Is  this  thy  neck,  that  curve  of  moonlight, 

Which  Helva's  hand  caressed  ? 

"  No  misty  breathing  strains  thy  nostril, 

Thine  eye  shines  blue  and  cold, 
Yet,  mounting  up  our  airy  pathway, 

I  see  thy  hoofs  of  gold  ! 
Not  lighter  o'er  the  springing  rainbow 

Walhalla's  gods  repair, 
Than  we,  in  sweeping  journey  over 

The  bending  bridge  of  air. 


203 

"  Far,  far  around,  slar-gleams  are  sparkling 

Amid  the  twilight  space  ; 
And  Earth,  that  lay  so  cold  and  darkling, 

Has  veiled  her  dusky  face. 
Are  those  the  Nornes  that  beckon  onward 

To  seats  at  Odin's  board, 
Where  nightly  by  the  hands  of  heroes 

The  foaming  mead  is  poured  ? 

"  'Tis  Skuld  !  her  star-eye  speaks  the  glory 

That  waits  the  warrior's  soul, 
When  on  its  hinge  of  music  opens 

The  gateway  of  the  Pole  — 
When  Odin's  warder  leads  the  here 

To  banquets  never  done, 
And  Freya's  eyes  outshine  in  summer 

The  ever- risen  sun. 

"  On  !  on  !  the  Northern  lights  are  streaming 

In  brightness  like  the  morn, 
And  pealing  far  amid  the  vastness, 

I  hear  the  Gjallarhorn  : 
The  heart  of  starry  space  is  throbbing 

With  songs  of  minstrels  old, 
And  now,  on  high  Walhalla's  portal, 

Gleam  Surtur's  hoofs  of  gold  !  " 


204 


THE  VOICE   OF   THE   FIRE. 

THEY  sat  by  the  hearth-stone,  broad  and  bright, 
Whose  burning  brands  threw  a  cheerful  light 
On  the  frosty  calm  of  the  winter's  night. 

Her  tresses  soft  to  his  lips  were  pressed, 
Her  head  was  laid  on  his  happy  breast, 
And  a  tender  silence  their  love  expressed  : 

And  ever  a  gentle  murmur  came 

From  the  clear,  bright  heart  of  the  wavering  flame, 

Like  the  first  sweet  call  of  the  dearest  name. 

He  kissed  on  the  warm,  white  brow, 

And  told  her  in  fonder  words,  the  vow 

He  had  whispered  under  the  moonlit  bough  ; 


205 

And  o'er  them  a  steady  radiance  came 

From  the  shining  heart  of  the  mounting  flame, 

Like  the  love  that  burneth  forever  the  same. 


The  maiden  smiled  through  her  soft  brown  eyes, 
As  he  led  her  forward  to  sunnier  skies, 
Whose  cloudless  light  on  the  Future  lies ; 

And  a  moment  paused  the  laughing  flame, 
And  it  listened  a  while,  and  then  there  came 
A  cheery  burst  from  its  sparkling  frame. 

In  the  home  he  pictured,  the  home  so  blest, 
Their  souls  should  sit  in  a  calmer  rest, 
Like  woodland  birds  in  their  shaded  nest. 

There  slept,  foreshadowed,  the  bliss  to  be, 
When  a  tenderer  life  that  home  should  see, 
In  the  wingless  cherub  that  climbed  his  knee. 

And  the  flame  went  on  with  its  flickering  song, 
And  beckoned  and  laughed  to  the  lovers  long, 
Who  sat  in  its  radiance,  red  and  strong. 


206 

And  ever  its  burden  seemed  to  be 
The  mingled  voices  of  household  glee, 
Like  the  gush  of  winds  in  a  mountain  tree. 

Then  broke  and  fell  a  glimmering  brand 
To  the  cold,  dead  ashes  it  fed  and  fanned, 
And  its  last  gleam  waved  like  a  warning  hand. 

They  did  not  speak,  for  there  came  a  fear, 
As  a  spirit  of  evil  were  wandering  near, 
A  menace  of  danger  to  something  dear. 

And,  hovering  over  its  smouldering  bed, 

A  feebler  pinion  the  flame  outspread, 

And  a  paler  light  through  the  chamber  shed. 

He  clasped  the  maid  in  a  fonder  thrall  : 

"  We  shall  love  each  other,  whatever  befall, 

And  the  Merciful  Father  is  over  all." 


207 


A  REQUIEM  IN  THE   NORTH. 

SPEED  swifter,  Night!  —  wild  Northern  Night, 

Whose  feet  the  Arctic  islands  know, 
When  stiffening  breakers,  sharp  and  white, 

Gird  the  complaining  shores  of  snow  ! 
Send  all  thy  winds  to  sweep  the  wold, 

And  howl  in  mountain  passes  far, 
And  hang  thy  banners,  red  and  cold, 

Against  the  shield  of  every  star  ! 

For  what  have  I  to  do  with  morn, 

Or  summer's  glory  in  the  vales  — 
With  the  blithe  ring  of  forest-horn, 

Or  beckoning  gleam  of  snowy  sails  ? 
Art  thou  not  gone,  in  whose  blue  eye 

The  fleeting  summer  dawned  to  me  ? 
Gone,  like  the  echo  of  a  sigh 

Beside  the  loud,  resounding  sea ! 


208 


O,  brief  that  time  of  song  and  flowers, 

Which  blessed,  through  thee,  the  Northern  Land  ; 
I  pine  amid  its  leafless  bowers, 

And  on  the  bleak  and  lonely  strand. 
The  forest  wails  the  starry  bloom 

Which  yet  shall  light  its  dusky  floor, 
But  down  my  spirit's  paths  of  gloom 

Thy  love  shall  blossom  nevermore. 

And  nevermore  shall  battling  pines 

Their  solemn  triumph  sound  for  me  ; 
Nor  morning  gild  the  mountain  lines, 

Nor  sunset  flush  the  hoary  sea  ; 
But  Night  and  Winter  fill  the  sky, 

And  load  with  frost  the  shivering  air, 
Till  every  gust  that  hurries  by 

Repeats  the  tale  of  my  despair. 

The  leaden  twilight,  cold  and  long, 

Is  slowly  settling  o'er  the  wave  ; 
No  wandering  blast  awakes  a  song 

In  naked  boughs,  above  thy  grave. 
The  frozen  air  is  still  and  dark  ; 

The  numb  earth  lies  in  icy  rest ; 
And  all  is  dead  save  this  one  spark 

Of  burning  grief,  within  my  breast. 


209 

Life's  darkened  orb  shall  wheel  no  more 

To  Love's  rejoicing  summer  back  : 
My  spirit  walks  a  wintry  shore, 

With  not  a  star  to  cheer  its  track. 
Speed  swifter,  Night !  thy  gloom  and  frost 

Are  free  to  spoil  and  ravage  here  ; 
This  last  wild  requiem  for  the  lost 

I  pour  in  thy  unheeding  ear ! 
14 


210 


A  VOICE  FROM  PIEDMONT. 


Avenge,  0  Lord,  Thy  slaughtered  saints,  whose  bones 
Lie  scattered  on  the  Alpine  Mountains  cold. 

MILTON  —  Sonnet  on  the  Massacres  in  Piedmont. 


BEND  from  that  Heaven,  whose  visioned  glories  gave, 
Thou  blind  old  Bard,  the  splendor  of  thy  song, 

And  teach  the  godlike  words  which  mortals  crave, 
To  speak,  exulting,  o'er  the  fallen  Wrong  ! 

For  lo  !  the  Avenger  of  that  hour  of  blood 

Has  heard  at  last  thy  summons,  stern  and  grand  ; 

Has  freed  the  children  of  the  slaughtered  brood, 
In  the  cold  Alpine  land  ! 


II. 


O  !  at  the  tardy  word,  whose  thunder  broke 
The  chains  of  ages  from  that  suffering  flock, 


211 


Methinks  the  mountain's  giant  soul  awoke, 
And  thrilled  beneath  the  eternal  ribs  of  rock. 

The  ancient  glaciers  brightened  in  the  sky ; 
Beneath  them,  shouting,  burst  the  joyous  rills, 

And  the  white  Alps  of  Piedmont  made  reply 
Unto  the  Vaudois  hills  ! 


in. 


And  far  below,  in  lonely  pasture-vales, 

The  Waldense  shepherd  knelt  upon  the  sod, 

While  chapel-bells  chimed  on  the  mountain  gales, 
And  every  chalet  gave  its  hymn  to  God. 

Matron,  and  sire,  and  sweet-voiced  peasant  maid, 
And  the  strong  hunter  from  the  steeps  of  snow, 

Gave  thanks  to  Him,  whose  help  their  fathers  prayed, 
Through  years  of  blood  and  woe. 


IV. 


Build  now  the  sepulchres  of  martyrs  old  : 
Gather  the  scattered  bones  from  every  glen, 

Where  the  red  waves  of  pitiless  slaughter  rolled, 
When  fell  those  brave  and  steadfast-hearted  men  ! 


212 


Piedmont  is  free  !  and  brightening  with  the  years, 
Shall  Freedom's  sun  upon  her  mountains  shine  ; 
While  her  glad  children  say,  with  grateful  tears, 

"  The  glory,  Lord,  be  Thine  !  " 
1848. 


213 


THE   CONTINENTS. 

I  HAD  a  vision  in  that  solemn  hour, 

Last  of  the  year  sublime, 
Whose  wave  sweeps  downward,  with  its  dying  power 

Rippling  the  shores  of  Time. 
On  the  bleak  margin  of  that  hoary  sea 

My  spirit  stood  alone, 
Watching  the  gleams  of  phantom  History, 

Which  through  the  darkness  shone. 

Then,  when  the  bell  of  midnight  ghostly  hands 

Tolled  for  the  dead  year's  doom, 
I  saw  the  spirits  of  Earth's  ancient  lands 

Stand  up  amid  the  gloom ! 
The  crowned  deities,  whose  reign  began 

In  the  forgotten  Past, 
When  first  the  fresh  world  gave  to  sovereign  Man 

Her  empires  green  and  vast. 


214 

First  queenly  ASIA,  from  the  fallen  thrones 

Of  twice  three  thousand  years, 
Came  with  the  woe  a  grieving  goddess  owns, 

Who  longs  for  mortal  tears. 
The  dust  of  ruin  to  her  mantle  clung 

And  dimmed  her  crown  of  gold, 
While  the  majestic  sorrows  of  her  tongue 

From  Tyre  to  Indus  rolled  : 

"  Mourn  with  me,  sisters,  in  my  realm  of  woe, 

Whose  only  glory  streams 
From  its  lost  childhood,  like  the  arctic  glow 

Which  sunless  Winter  dreams  ! 
In  the  red  desert  moulders  Babylon, 

And  the  wild  serpent's  hiss 
Echoes  in  Petra's  palaces  of  stone, 

And  waste  Persepolis. 

"  Gone  are  the  deities  that  ruled  enshrined 

In  Elephanta's  caves, 
And  Brahma's  wailings  fill  the  fragrant  wind 

That  ripples  Ganges'  waves  : 
The  ancient  gods  amid  their  temples  fall, 

And  shapes  of  some  near  doom, 
Trembling  and  waving  on  the  Future's  wall, 

More  fearful  make  my  gloom  ! " 


215 


Then,  from  her  seat,  amid  the  palms  embowered 

That  shade  the  lion-land, 
Swart  AFRICA  in  dusky  aspect  towered, 

The  fetters  on  her  hand  ! 
Backward  she  saw,  from  out  her  drear  eclipse, 

The  mighty  Theban  years, 
And  the  deep  anguish  of  her  mournful  lips 

Interpreted  her  tears. 

"  Woe  for  my  children,  whom  your  gyves  have  bound 

Through  centuries  of  toil  ; 
The  bitter  waitings  of  whose  bondage  sound 

From  many  an  alien  soil ! 
Leave  me  but  free,  though  the  eternal  sand 

Be  all  my  kingdom  now  — 
Though  the  rude  splendors  of  barbaric  land 

But  mock  my  crownless  brow  !  " 

There  was  a  sound,  like  sudden  trumpets  blown, 

A  ringing,  as  of  arms, 
When  EUROPE  rose,  a  stately  amazon, 

Stern  in  her  mailed  charms. 
She  brooded  long  beneath  the  weary  bars 

That  chafed  her  soul  of  flame, 
And  like  a  seer,  who  reads  the  awful  stars> 

Her  words  prophetic  came  : 


216 


"  I  hear  new  sounds  along  the  ancient  shore, 

Whose  dull  old  monotone 
Of  tides,  that  broke  on  many  a  system  hoar, 

Moaned  through  the  ages  lone  : 
I  see  a  gleaming,  like  the  crimson  morn 

Beneath  a  stormy  sky, 
And  warning  throes,  which  long  my  breast  has  borne, 

Proclaim  the  struggle  nigh." 

O  radiant-browed,  the  latest  born  of  Time  ! 

How  waned  thy  sisters  old, 
Before  the  splendors  of  thine  eye  sublime, 

And  mien  erect  and  bold  ! 
Free,  as  the  winds  of  thine  own  forests  are, 

Thy  brow  beamed  lofty  cheer, 
And  Day's  bright  oriflamme,  the  Morning  Star, 

Flashed  on  thy  lifted  spear. 

"  I  bear  no  weight  "  —  rang,  thine  exulting  tones  — - 

"  Of  memories  weird  and  vast ; 
No  crushing  heritage  of  iron  thrones, 

Bequeathed  by  some  dead  Past ; 
But  hopes,  that  give  my  children  power  to  climb 

Above  the  old-world  fears  — 
Whose  prophecies  forerun  the  latest  time, 

And  lead  the  crowning  years  ! 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 


217 

"  Like  spectral  lamps,  that  burn  before  a  tomb, 

The  ancient  lights  expire  ; 
I  hold  a  torch,  that  floods  the  fading  gloom 

With  everlasting  fire  : 
Crowned  with  my  constellated  stars,  I  stand 

Beside  the  foaming  sea, 
And  from  the  Future,  with  a  victor's  hand, 

Claim  empire  for  the  Free  !  " 
January,  1848. 


218 


THE   MOUNTAINS. 

O  DEEP,  exulting  freedom  of  the  hills  ! 

O  summits  vast,  that  to  the  climbing  view 

In  naked  glory  stand  against  the  blue  ! 
O  cold  and  buoyant  air,  whose  crystal  fills 
Heaven's  amethystine  bowl !     O  speeding  streams, 

That  foam  and  thunder  from  the  cliffs  below ! 

O  slippery  brinks  and  solitudes  of  snow, 
And  granite  bleakness,  where  the  vulture  screams! 

0  stormy  pines,  that  wrestle  with  the  breath 
Of  every  tempest,  sharp  and  icy  horns, 
And  hoary  glaciers,  sparkling  in  the  morns, 

And  broad,  dim  wonders  of  the  world  beneath  ! 

1  summon  ye,  and  'mid  the  glare  which  fills 
The  noisy  mart,  my  spirit  walks  the  hills. 


219 


LIFE. 

0  LIFE  !  O  Life  !  art  thou  a  mocking  cheat, 
That,  with  thy  flush  and  fervor  in  my  blood, 
Teachest  my  heart  a  high,  heroic  mood, 

And  passion-joy  in  all  things  fair  and  fleet  ? 

1  know  the  trumpet  winds  will  join  no  more 

With  the  high  stars  and  billowed  sea,  to  lift 
My  spirit  to  the  bard's  immortal  gift  — 
That  when  a  few  warm  summers  shall  be  o'er, 
And  thy  last  vintage  pours  its  scanty  wine, 
All  these  quick  flames  will  die  in  ashes  low, 
The  sluggish  pulse  forget  its  leaping  flow, 
And  faded  lie  the  flowers  of  Love  divine : 
When  these,  thy  bounties,  fail  to  warm  my  breath, 
Leave  me,  false  Life,  and  send  thy  brother,  Death  ! 


220 


L'ENVOI. 

I'VE  passed  the  grim  and  threatening  warders 

That  guard  the  vestibule  of  Song, 
And  traced  the  print  of  bolder  footsteps 

The  lengthened  corridors  along  ; 
Where  every  thought  I  strove  to  blazon 

Beside  the  bannered  lays  of  old, 
Was  dim  below  some  bright  escutcheon, 

Or  shaded  by  some  grander  fold. 

I  saw,  in  veiled  and  shadowy  glimpses, 

The  solemn  halls  expand  afar, 
And  through  the  twilight,  half  despairing, 

Looked  trembling  up  to  find  a  star ; 
Till,  in  the  rush  of  wings,  awakened 

My  soul  to  utterance  free  and  strong, 
And  with  impassioned  exultation, 

I  revelled  in  the  rage  of  Song  ! 


221 

Then,  though  the  world  beside,  unheeding, 

Heard  other  voices  than  my  own, 
Tiiou,  thou  didst  mark  the  broken  music, 

And  cheer  its  proud,  aspiring  tone  : 
Thou  cam'st  in  many  a  lovely  vision 

To  lead  my  ardent  spirit  on, 
Thine  eye  my  morning-star  of  promise, 

The  sweet  anticipant  of  dawn. 

And  if  I  look  to  holier  altars, 

Thou  still  art  near  me,  as  of  old, 
And  thou  wilt  give  the  living  laurel, 

When  the  shrined  Presence  I  behold. 
Take,  then,  these  echoes  of  thy  being, 

My  lips  have  weakly  striven  to  frame  ; 
For  when  I  speak  what  thou  inspirest, 

I  know  my  songs  are  nearest  fame. 


LATER    POEMS. 


(223) 


225 


WIND  AND  SEA. 


THE  Sea  is  a  jovial  comrade, 

He  laughs  wherever  he  goes  ; 
His  merriment  shines  in  the  dimpling  lines 

That  wrinkle  his  hale  repose  ; 
He  lays  himself  down  at  the  feet  of  the  Sun, 

And  shakes  all  over  with  glee, 
And  the  broad-backed  billows  fall  faint  on  the 
shore, 

In  the  mirth  of  the  mighty  Sea ! 


n. 


But  the  Wind  is  sad  and  restless, 
And  cursed  with  an  inward  pain  ; 
15 


226 

You  may  hark  as  you  will,  by  valley  or  hill, 
But  you  hear  him  still  complain. 

He  wails  on  the  barren  mountains, 
And  shrieks  on  the  wintry  sea ; 

He  sobs  in  the  cedar,  and  moans  in  the  pine, 
And  shudders  all  over  the  aspen  tree. 


III. 


Welcome  are  both  their  voices, 

And  I  know  not  which  is  best  — 
The  laughter  that  slips  from  the  Ocean's  lips, 

Or  the  comfortless  Wind's  unrest. 
There's  a  pang  in  all  rejoicing, 

A  joy  in  the  heart  of  pain, 
And  the  Wind  that  saddens,  the  Sea  that  glad 
dens, 

Are  singing  the  self-same  strain ! 


227 


MY  DEAD. 

GIVE  back  the  soul  of  Youth  once  more  ! 
The  years  are  fleeting  fast  away, 
And  this  brown  hair  will  soon  be  gray, 

These  cheeks  be  pale  and  furrowed  o'er. 

Ah,  no  !  the  child  is  long  since  dead, 

Whose  light  feet  spurred  the  laggard  years, 
Who  breathed  in  future  atmospheres, 

Ere  Youth's  eternal  Present  fled. 

Dead  lies  the  boy,  whose  timid  eye 

Shunned  every  face  that  spake  not  love  ; 
Whose  simple  vision  looked  above, 

And  saw  a  glory  in  the  sky. 


228 

And  now  the  youth  has  sighed  his  last ; 
I  see  him  cold  upon  his  bier, 
But  in  these  eyes  there  is  no  tear : 

He  joins  his  brethren  of  the  Past. 

'Twas  time  he  died  :  the  gates  of  Art 
Had  shut  him  from  the  temple's  shrine, 
And  now  I  climb  her  mount  divine, 

But  with  the  sinews,  not  the  heart. 

How  many  more,  O  Life !  shall  I 

In  future  offer  up  to  thee  ? 

And  shall  they  perish  utterly, 
Upon  whose  graves  I  clomb  so  high  ? 

Say,  shall  I  not  at  last  attain 

Some  height,  from  whence  the  Past  is  clear, 

In  whose  immortal  atmosphere 
I  shall  behold  my  Dead  again  ? 


229 


THE  LOST  CROWN. 

You  ask  me  why  I  sometimes  drop 
The  threads  of  talk  I  weave  with  you, 

And  midway  in  expression  stop 
As  if  a  sudden  trumpet  blew. 

It  is  because  a  trumpet  blows 

From  steeps  your  feet  will  never  climb 
It  calls  my  soul  from  present  woes 

To  rule  some  buried  realm  of  Time. 

Wide  open  swing  the  guarded  gates, 
That  shut  from  you  the  vales  of  dawn  ; 

And  there  my  car  of  triumph  waits, 
By  white,  immortal  horses  drawn. 


230 

A  throne  of  gold  the  wheels  uphold, 
Each  spoke  a  ray  of  jewelled  fire  : 

The  crimson  banners  float  unrolled, 
Or  falter  when  the  winds  expire. 

Lo  !  where  the  valley's  bed  expands, 
Through  cloudy  censer-smoke,  upcurled 

The  avenue  to  distant  lands  — 
The  single  landscape  of  a  world ! 

I  mount  the  throne  ;  I  seize  the  rein  ; 

Between  the  shouting  throngs  I  go, 
The  millions  crowding  hill  and  plain, 

And  now  a  thousand  trumpets  blow ! 

The  armies  of  the  world  are  there, 
The  pomp,  the  beauty,  and  the  power, 

Far-shining  through  the  dazzled  air, 
To  crown  the  triumph  of  the  hour. 

Enthroned  aloft,  I  seem  to  float 

On  wide,  victorious  wings  upborne, 

Past  the  rich  vale's  expanding  throat, 
To  where  the  palace  burns  with  morn. 


231 

My  limbs  dilate,  my  breast  expands, 
A  starry  fire  is  in  mine  eye  ; 

I  ride  above  the  subject  lands, 
A  god  beneath  the  hollow  sky. 

Peal  out,  ye  clarions  !  shout,  ye  throngs, 
Beneath  your  banners1  reeling  folds  ! 

This  pageantry  to  me  belongs  — 
My  hand  its  proper  sceptre  holds. 


Surge  on,  in  still  augmenting  lines, 
Till  the  great  plain  be  overrun, 

And  my  procession  far  outshines 
The  bended  pathway  of  the  sun  ! 

But  when  my  triumph  overtops 

This  language,  which  from  vassals  grew, 
The  crown  from  off  my  forehead  drops, 

And  I  again  am  serf  with  you. 


232 


STUDIES  FOR  PICTURES. 
I. 


AT    HOME. 


THE  rain  is  sobbing  on  the  wold  ; 
The  house  is  dark,  the  hearth  is  cold ; 
And  stretching  drear  and  ashy  gray 
Beyond  the  cedars,  lies  the  bay. 

The  winds  are  moaning,  as  they  pass 
Through  tangled  knots  of  autumn  grass 
A  weary,  dreary  sound  of  woe, 
As  if  all  joy  were  dead  below. 

I  sit  alone,  I  wait  in  vain 
Some  voice  to  lull  this  nameless  pain ; 
But  from  my  neighbor's  cottage  near 
Come  sounds  of  happy  household  cheer. 


233 

My  neighbor  at  his  window  stands, 
His  youngest  baby  in  his  hands  ; 
The  others  seek  his  tender  kiss, 
And  one  sweet  woman  crowns  his  bliss. 

I  look  upon  the  rainy  wild : 
I  have  no  wife,  I  have  no  child  : 
There  is  no  fire  upon  my  hearth, 
And  none  to  love  me  on  the  earth. 


II. 

THE    NEIGHBOR. 

How  cool  and  wet  the  lowlands  lie 
Beneath  the  cloaked  and  hooded  sky  ! 
How  softly  beats  the  welcome  rain 
Against  the  plashy  window-pane  ! 

There  is  no  sail  upon  the  bay : 

We  cannot  go  abroad  to-day, 

But,  darlings,  come  and  take  my  hand, 

And  hear  a  tale  of  Fairy-land. 


OF  THE 

CTNIVERSITY 


234 

The  baby's  little  head  shall  rest 
In  quiet  on  his  father's  breast, 
And  mother,  if  he  chance  to  stir, 
Shall  sing  him  songs  once  sung  to  her. 

Ah,  little  ones,  ye  do  not  fret, 
Because  the  garden  grass  is  wet ; 
Ye  love  the  rains,  whene'er  they  come, 
That  all  day  keep  your  father  home. 

No  fish  to-day  the  net  shall  yield ; 
The  happy  oxen  graze  afield ; 
The  thirsty  corn  will  drink  its  fill, 
And  louder  sing  the  woodland  rill. 

Then,  darlings,  nestle  round  the  hearth ; 
Ye  are  the  sunshine  of  the  earth : 
Your  tender  eyes  so  fondly  shine, 
They  bring  a  welcome  rain  to  mine. 


235 


III. 

UNDER   THE    STARS. 

How  the  hot  revel's  fever  dies. 

Beneath  the  stillness  of  the  skies  ! 

How  suddenly  the  whirl  and  glare 

Shoot  far  away,  and  this  cold  air 

Its  icy  beverage  brings,  to  chase 

The  burning  wine-flush  from  my  face  ! 

The  window's  gleam  still  faintly  falls, 

And  music  sounds  at  intervals, 

Jarring  the  pulses  of  the  night 

With  whispers  of  profane  delight ; 

But  on  the  midnight's  awful  strand, 

Like  some  wrecked  swimmer  flung  to  land, 

I  lie,  and  hear  those  breakers  roar : 

And  smile  —  they  cannot  harm  me  more  ! 

Keep,  keep  your  lamps ;  they  do  not  mar 

The  silver  of  a  single  star. 

The  painted  roses  you  display 

Drop  from  your  cheeks,  and  fade  away ; 


236 

The  snowy  warmth  you  bid  me  see 
Is  hollowness  and  mockery  ; 
The  words  that  make  your  sin  so  fair 
Grow  silent  in  this  vestal  air ; 
The  loosened  madness  of  your  hair, 
That  wrapped  me  in  its  snaky  coils, 
No  more  shall  mesh  me  in  your  toils ; 
Your  very  kisses  on  my  brow 

Burn  like  the  lips  of  devils  now. 

O  sacred  night !     O  virgin  calm  ! 

Teach  me  the  immemorial  psalm 

Of  your  eternal  watch  sublime 

Above  the  grovelling  lusts  of  Time ! 

Within,  the  orgie  shouts  and  reels  ; 

Without,  the  planets'  golden  wheels 

Spin,  circling  through  the  utmost  space  ; 

Within,  each  flushed  and  reckless  face 

Is  masked  to  cheat  a  haunting  care  ; 

Without,  the  silence  and  the  prayer. 

Within,  the  beast  of  flesh  controls ; 

Without,  the  God  that  speaks  in  souls  ! 


237 


IV. 

IN    THE    MORNING. 

THE  lamps  were  thick  ;  the  air  was  hot ; 

The  heavy  curtains  hushed  the  room  ; 
The  sultry  midnight  seemed  to  blot 

All  life  but  ours  in  vacant  gloom. 

You  spoke  :  my  blood  in  every  vein 
Throbbed,  as  by  sudden  fever  stirred, 

And  some  strange  whirling  in  my  brain 
Subdued  my  judgment,  as  I  heard. 

Ah,  yes  !  when  men  are  dead  asleep, 
When  all  the  tongues  of  Day  are  still, 

The  heart  must  sometimes  fail  to  keep 
Its  natural  poise  'twixt  good  and  ill. 

You  knew  too  well  its  blind  desires, 
Its  savage  instincts,  scarce  confessed  ; 

I  could  not  see  you  touch  the  wires, 
But  felt  your  lightning  in  my  breast. 


238 

For  you,  Life's  web  displayed  its  flaws, 
The  wrong  which  Time  transforms  to  right 

The  iron  mesh  of  social  laws 
Was  but  a  cobweb  in  your  sight. 

You  showed  that  tempting  freedom,  where 
The  passions  bear  their  perfect  fruit, 

The  cheats  of  conscience  cannot  scare, 
And  Self  is  monarch  absolute. 

And  something  in  me  seemed  to  rise, 
And  trample  old  obedience  down  : 

The  serf  sprang  up,  with  furious  eyes, 
And  clutched  at  the  imperial  crown. 

That  fierce  rebellion  overbore 
The  arbiter  that  watched  within, 

Till  Sin  so  changed  an  aspect  wore, 
It  was  no  longer  that  of  Sin. 

You  gloried  in  the  fevered  flush 
That  spread,  defiant,  o'er  my  face, 

Nor  thought  how  soon  this  morning's  blush 
Would  chronicle  the  night's  disgrace. 


239 

I  wash  my  eyes  ;  I  bathe  my  brow  ; 

I  see  the  sun  on  hill  and  plain : 
The  old  allegiance  claims  me  now, 

The  old  content  returns  again. 

Ah,  seek  to  stop  the  sober  glow 

And  healthy  airs  that  come  with  day, 

For  when  the  cocks  at  dawning  crow, 
Your  evil  spirits  flee  away. 


240 


SUNKEN  TREASURES. 

WHEN  the  uneasy  waves  of  life  subside, 
And  the  soothed  ocean  sleeps  in  glassy  rest, 

I  see,  submerged  beyond  or  storm  or  tide, 
The  treasures  gathered  in  its  greedy  breast. 

There  still  they  shine,  through  the  translucent  Past, 

Far  down  on  that  forever  quiet  floor ; 
No  fierce  upheaval  of  the  deep  shall  cast 

Them  back  —  no  wave  shall  wash  them  to  the 
shore. 

I  see  them  gleaming,  beautiful  as  when 

Erewhile  they  floated,  convoys  of  my  fate  ; 

The  barks  of  lovely  women,  noble  men, 

Full-sailed  with  hope,  and  stored  with  Love's  own 
freight. 


241 

The  sunken  ventures  of  my  heart  as  well, 
Look  up  to  me,  as  perfect  as  at  dawn  ; 

My  golden  palace  heaves  beneath  the  swell 
To  meet  my  touch,  and  is  again  withdrawn. 

There  sleep  the  early  triumphs,  cheaply  won, 
That  led  Ambition  to  his  utmost  verge, 

And  still  his  visions,  like  a  drowning  sun, 

Send  up  receding  splendors  through  the  surge. 

There  wait  the  recognitions,  the  quick  ties, 

Whence  the  heart  knows  its  kin,  wherever  cast ; 

And  there  the  partings,  when  the  wistful  eyes 
Caress  each  other  as  they  look  their  last. 

There  lie  the  summer  eves,  delicious  eves, 

The  soft  green  valleys  drenched  with  light  divine, 

The  lisping  murmurs  of  the  chestnut  leaves, 
The  hand  that  lay,  the  eyes  that  looked  in  mine. 

There  lives  the  hour  of  fear  and  rapture  yet, 
The  perilled  climax  of  the  passionate  years  ; 

There  still  the  rains  of  wan  December  wet 
A  naked  mound  —  I  cannot  see  for  tears  ! 
16 


242 

There  are  they  all :  they  do  not  fade  or  waste, 
Lapped  in  the  arms  of  the  embalming  brine  ; 

More  fair  than  when  their  beings  mine  embraced  — 
Of  nobler  aspect,  beauty  more  divine. 

I  see  them  all,  but  stretch  my  hands  in  vain  ; 

No  deep-sea  plummet  reaches  where  they  rest ; 
No  cunning  diver  shall  descend  the  main, 

And  bring  a  single  jewel  from  its  breast. 


243 


A  FANTASY. 

0  MAIDEN  of  the  Forest, 
Why  play  so  loud  and  long  ? 

Now  let  thy  horn  be  silent, 
Thy  voice  take  up  the  song ! 

1  cannot  choose  but  listen, 

I  cannot  choose  but  follow, 
Where'er  thy  blue  eyes  glisten 
Across  the  woodlands  hollow. 

My  heart  is  filled  with  brightness 
As  the  heavens  are  filled  with  morn, 

To  hear  the  sounds  enchanted 
Leap  from  thy  silver  horn. 


244 

Let  the  echoes  rest  a  moment, 

And  let  thy  lips  declare 
If  thou  be  of  earth  or  ocean, 

Or  the  flying  shapes  of  air. 

Let  my  mouth  be  free  to  kiss  thee, 
Let  my  hands  be  free  to  hold, 

For  I  cannot  choose  but  love  thee, 
And  love  is  ever  bold. 

Still  she  played,  and  playing,  fleeted 

Before  me  as  I  sought  her, 
And  the  horn  rang  out  this  answer 

Across  the  shaded  water  : 

I  play  the  strains  enchanted 
You  cannot  choose  but  hear, 

For  your  life  is  in  the  music, 
And  your  heart  sits  at  your  ear. 

I  shall  never  cease  my  playing 

For  your  love's  impassioned  prayer  ; 

I  shall  never  feel  your  kisses 
Falling  on  my  golden  hair. 


245 


For  my  touch  would  chill  your  pulses, 
And  my  kiss  make  dim  your  eye, 

And  the  horn  will  first  be  silent 
In  the  hour  that  you  shall  die. 


246 


THE   VOYAGERS. 

No  longer  spread  the  sail ! 

No  longer  strain  the  oar ! 
For  never  yet  has  blown  the  gale 

Will  bring  us  nearer  shore. 

The  swaying  keel  slides  on, 

The  helm  obeys  the  hand ; 
Fast  we  have  sailed  from  dawn  to  dawn, 

Yet  never  reach  the  land. 

Each  morn  we  see  its  peaks, 

Made  beautiful  with  snow  ; 
Each  eve  its  vales  and  winding  creeks, 

That  sleep  in  mist  below. 


247 

At  noon  we  mark  the  gleam 

Of  temples  tall  and  fair  ; 
At  midnight  watch  its  bonfires  stream 

In  the  auroral  air. 

And  still  the  keel  is  swift, 

And  still  the  wind  is  free, 
And  still  as  far  its  mountains  lift 

Beyond  the  enchanted  sea. 

Yet  vain  is  all  return, 

Though  false  the  goal  before  ; 
The  gale  is  ever  dead  astern, 

The  current  sets  to  shore. 


O  shipmates,  leave  the  ropes  — 
And  what  though  no  one  steers, 

We  sail  no  faster  for  our  hopes, 
No  slower  for  our  fears. 


Howe'er  the  bark  is  blown, 
Lie  down  and  sleep  awhile  : 

What  profits  toil,  when  chance  alone 
Can  bring  us  to  the  isle  ? 


248 


MEMORY. 

0  GIVE  me  the  tongue  of  the  silver  sea, 
Or  the  flute  of  the  twilight  wind, 
For  a  tenderer  music  my  heart  would  find, 

To  sing  of  the  sadness  and  sweetness  of  Memory  ! 

Joy  is  a  goblet  that  soon  is  drained  ; 

It  cracks  in  our  heedless  hands  ; 

But  the  cup  of  Remembrance  forever  stands, 
Filled  with  libations  the  wormwood  of  tears  has  stained. 

We  lift  it  against  the  dying  sun  ; 

We  drink  till  the  eyes  run  o'er ; 

We  drink  till  the  heart  will  contain  no  more, 
And  surfeited  turns  from  the  Lethe  it  has  not  won. 


249 


For  all  can  look  around  and  before, 

But  few  can  steadily  turn 

Where  the  unextinguished  beacons  burn, 
Far  back  on  the  cliffs  of  the  lost,  unreachable  shore. 

Few  can  sit  at  the  board  of  the  Past, 

The  Barmecide  feast  of  the  soul, 

And  catch  and  sing  over  its  songs  as  they  roll, 
For  the  heart-strings  attuned  to  their  burthen  are 
broken  at  last. 


250 


THE  MARINERS. 

THEY  were  born  by  the  shore,  by  the  shore, 
When  the  surf  was  loud  and  the  sea-gull  cried  ; 

They  were  rocked  to  the  rhythm  of  its  roar, 
They  were  cradled  in  the  arms  of  the  tide. 

Sporting  on  the  fenceless  sand, 

Looking  o'er  the  limitless  blue, 
Half  on  the  water  and  half  on  the  land, 

Ruddily  and  lustily  to  manhood  they  grew. 

How  should  they  follow  where  the  plough 
Furrows  at  the  heels  of  the  lazy  steers  ? 

How  should  they  stand  with  a  sickly  brow, 
Pent  behind  a  counter,  wasting  golden  years  ? 


251 


They  turned  to  the  Earth,  but  she  frowns  on  her  child ; 

They  turned  to  the  Sea,  and  he  smiled  as  of  old  ; 
Sweeter  was  the  peril  of  the  breakers  white  and  wild, 

Sweeter  than  the  land  with  its  bondage  and  gold  ! 

Now  they  walk  on  the  rolling  deck, 

And  they  hang  to  the  rocking  shrouds, 
When  the  lee-shore  looms  with  a  vision  of  wreck, 

And  the  scud  is  flung  to  the  stooping  clouds. 

Shifting  the  changeless  horizon  ring, 

Which  the  lands  and  islands  in  turn  look  o'er, 

They  traverse  the  zones  with  a  veering  wing, 
From  shore  to  sea,  and  from  sea  to  shore. 

They  know  the  South  and  the  North ; 

They  know  the  East  and  the  West ; 
Shuttles  of  fortune,  flung  back  and  forth 

In  the  web  of  motion,  the  woof  of  rest. 

They  do  not  act  with  a  studied  grace, 

They  do  not  speak  in  delicate  phrase, 
But  the  candor  of  heaven  is  on  their  face, 

And  the  freedom  of  ocean  in  all  their  ways. 


252 

They  cannot  fathom  the  subtle  cheats, 
The  lying  arts  which  the  landsmen  learn  : 

Each  looks  in  the  eyes  of  the  man  he  meets, 
And  whoso  trusts  him,  he  trusts  in  turn. 

Say  that  they  curse,  if  you  will, 

That  the  tavern  and  harlot  possess  their  gains  : 
On  the  surface  floats  what  they  do  of  ill  — 

At  the  bottom  the  manhood  remains. 

When  they  slide  from  the  gangway-plank  below, 
Deep  as  the  plummeted  shroud  may  drag, 

They  hold  it  comfort  enough,  to  know 

The  corpse  is  wrapped  in  their  country's  flag. 

But  whether  they  die  on  the  sea  or  shore, 
And  lie  under  water,  or  sand,  or  sod, 

Christ  give  them  the  rest  that  he  keeps  in  store, 
And  anchor  their  souls  in  the  harbors  of  God  ! 


NOTE. 


OB,  THE  ROMANCE  OP  MAIZE.  —  For  the 
Indian  legend  embodied  in  this  poem,  the  author  is  indebted 
to  the  very  curious  and  valuable  "  Algic  Researches"  of  Mr. 
Schoolcraft.  He  has  added  nothing  to  the  simple  and  beauti 
ful  story  of  the  Origin  of  Maize,  as  there  related,  —  a  story 
-which  charmed  him  the  more,  from  its  unexpected  grace  and 
symmetry,  in  the  midst  of  so  many  grotesque  and  exaggerated 
forms  of  tradition. 

(253) 


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